


Knowing John Watson

by Blackruby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Canon compliant up to TRF, Canon-Typical Violence, Deviates From Canon, Eventual Romance, Forgiveness, Gore, Greg is a good friend, Grooming, Hurt John, Insecure John, John's past, M/M, Mycroft Meddles, Overprotective Sherlock Holmes, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Past Violence, Redemption, Reunion, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock doesn't know everything, Slow Build, Snarky John, Suicide, biscuits fix everything, casefic, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 65,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackruby/pseuds/Blackruby
Summary: Sherlock returns after the Fall expecting everything to go back to the way it was. Of course, things are never that simple.Sherlock believes he knows everything there is to know about John, and he certainly doesn't think there's anything that John could *teach* him. But as Sherlock and John work to rebuild the life they had together, the world's only Consulting Detective realises that he's very wrong, on both counts.EDIT: In celebration of 1000 hits I've reworked the story according to feedback from Finnmark regarding epithets. That's the only difference, except for a couple of minor word changes. No plot changes etc.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 168





	1. Chapter One

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his offices at the Diogenes Club, the hour was very late but his door was opened without warning and he gave the intruder an exasperated look.

“Knocking is still in fashion, you know.” Mycroft peered over his cut crystal glass as he took a slow sip of scotch. “Were you seen?”

“Please, brother dear, do remember to whom you are speaking.” Sherlock said as he removed his scarf and coat to hang up, before taking the leather seat in front of the desk. Both brothers regarded each other with a critical eye for a moment. The older brother had a few more grey hairs and wrinkles but seemed to have retained his general disdain for humanity at large if his facial expressions were anything to go by.

Mr Holmes the younger didn’t quite fill out the suit the way he used to. Mycroft knew that home comforts like a good meal and warm bed were often missing from Sherlock’s recent life, never mind the finer things like music, relaxation and conversation. Still, the job was done very well and his little brother was finally back on British soil.

“I suppose you want me to fill you in on what’s been going on here before you go presenting yourself back at 221 Baker Street?” Mycroft gave his brother a knowing look while Sherlock tried valiantly to look like he wasn’t chomping at the bit for information on the people he cared about.

“So, they are still there then? John and Mrs Hudson?” The detective tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t expect John to stay in the flat, I thought he’d find it too painful.” That was the thing about the doctor, sometimes he did unpredictable things, usually just when Sherlock thought he had him completely figured out.

“He did, he moved into 221c, the basement flat.” The civil servant refilled his glass from a matching crystal decanter and poured some into a fresh one for his brother. “I gather he didn’t want Mrs Hudson to feel like she’d lost the both of you at the same time.” Sherlock took the glass and lent back in his chair with a concerned frown.

“The basement flat? But that was riddled with damp, John’s shoulder always hurts more in the cold. It was clearly a terrible idea, why didn’t you stop him, Mycroft? I asked you to look after him for me.” He fixed his older brother with a glare that only deepened when he received a chuckle in response.

“I do wonder how I was expected to ‘stop’ Dr Watson considering he worked out that I was the source for all the information Moriarty had on you. He won’t even share a room with me long enough to have a conversation. Instead I conspired with Mrs Hudson to have 221c renovated with a brand new damp proof course while John was away for a few days.” Mycroft smirked as Sherlock tipped his glass slightly to indicate his begrudging approval of how his older brother had handled the situation.

“Mrs Hudson sounds like she’s doing alright for herself if she’s been fussing over John and the damp.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with warmth at the mention of his landlady, who he held in the highest esteem.

“Yes, she is. I am firmly of the opinion that the dear lady is going to outlive all of us, she’s more spry than almost everyone I know, it’s sickening.” Mycroft’s tone could be mistaken for contempt by someone who didn’t know him well, but the detective noted the subtle inflection on the word ‘dear’ that meant he respected Mrs Hudson and her ability to wrangle his younger brother.

“What about Lestrade? He was bound to get a lot of heat for allowing me to help on all those cases. You promised to do what you could for him.” The slight twitch of Sherlock’s eyebrow was a tell of his, betraying his anxiety. Greg Lestrade had been very good to him, even when Sherlock just showered him with constant abuse.

“He was suspended from Homicide initially while there was an investigation into his conduct regarding you. When the Hillman Inquiry was announced by Parliament, the Metropolitan Police restored him to his position as an act of good faith while it was ongoing. Once the verdict and report were published, he emerged without a stain on his good character.” Mycroft noted the minute relief that rolled over the detective’s face before his eyes creased in confusion.

“Wait, the Hillman Inquiry? What was this?” Sherlock asked as he took a sip of the whiskey. He had consciously avoided any news from the UK while he was hunting down everyone in Moriarty’s network, he couldn’t risk being distracted on his critical missions.

“That was the fact-finding exercise announced roughly five months after your ‘death’, mostly thanks to the tireless efforts of one Doctor John Watson.” Mycroft swished the liquid in his glass and indicated to a file on his desk. Sherlock picked it up and started flicking through it. 

“Roughly a month after your sad passing, Dr Watson started blogging again. He set out to prove that you hadn’t staged any of the crimes that he worked on with you, starting with the ‘Study in Pink’ case. He was able to independently prove your whereabouts when both Sir Patterson and young James were taken and killed. Your boarding pass from your trip to Vienna that November was very conclusive.” Sherlock skimmed through the printouts from John’s blog: A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker, The Aluminium Crutch and more. John had patiently laid out his proof without any of his usual romantic commentary.

“But how? John types with only two fingers and can’t work a self-service checkout without shouting at it. These things would require someone with computer skills, access to CCTV footage and GPS locations. He couldn’t have dug it up himself and getting someone else to do so would have cost serious money.” His drink was forgotten on the desk; Sherlock shifted so he was sitting crosslegged in the armchair as he re-read the file to see what he’d missed on the first look.

“Dr Watson cashed in on a lot of the good will that you both had built up to get the help he needed. Army contacts that owed him a favour, past grateful clients, he contacted anyone and everyone that he thought might be able to help him… Everyone except me that is.” Mycroft was glaring into his glass with a complex expression. _‘Bitterness. It would have stung that John wouldn’t let him be a part of this.’_ Sherlock thought as he watched his brother out of the corner of his eye.

“When the General Medical Council suspended him from practice for six months for pleading guilty to assaulting a police officer, Henry Knight was the one who paid the legal costs and accompanying fine. John said he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the eye anymore if I made the disciplinary action ‘go away’ as he put it.” The civil servant puffed his cheeks out in a rare show of petulance at the doctor’s stubborn streak.

“That sounds like John, he did punch the Chief Superintendent, he’d have insisted on taking responsibility for his actions. I imagine it was a fine for the conviction itself considering it was his first offence?” Sherlock’s voice had a fond note to it at discussing John and his strong moral principles. 

“Correct. He hasn’t touched the inheritance you left him either. I have my suspicions as to why but considering he won’t talk to me; I can’t be absolutely certain... He’s going to hate me even more when he realises that I knew you were alive.” Mycroft gave another frustrated sigh. 

“But coming back on track, Doctor Watson made enough waves that soon gained momentum, leading to the announcement of the Inquiry. Once set up, it heard live evidence over four months before the panel retired to consider matters. Three months later they declared you innocent of all suspicion, criticising both the Metropolitan Police and the mainstream media severely. There was quite a memorable press conference that followed.” The elder brother picked up the remote and pointed it at the flat screen hanging on the wall. 

As Sherlock shuffled his chair around, the TV screen flickered to life to show a man standing at a podium in the press room at the Houses of Parliament. The lawyer was telling the journalists gathered that they welcomed the verdict from the Hillman Inquiry into Sherlock Holmes, his cases and the events leading up to his tragic suicide just over a year before.

Behind him and to the left, was Doctor John Watson in formal clothes but standing at parade rest, with a tearfully happy Mrs Hudson holding tightly on to his right arm. Sherlock smiled to himself, it was so good to see them again, even just on screen.

“Now my client, Dr Watson, wishes to address you all.” There was a quiet muttering of those present which told Sherlock that John speaking directly to the press was a rare occurrence. _‘Figures. He always hated journalists.’_

Mrs Hudson let go of John’s arm and Sherlock saw his friend straighten his spine and march to the microphone before giving those in front of him a long hard look. _‘Captain John Watson; ready to wage war.’_ The detective thought to himself as John began to speak.

“The Inquiry verdict only confirmed what I, and precious few others, have never doubted. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man who saved so many lives, brought justice and closure to many others and was never _ever_ a fraud.” Though his voice was strong and clear, John himself looked tired, his eyes were dull and Sherlock could tell he’d lost a lot of weight. He unconsciously began to chew his bottom lip as John continued. 

“It took a long time to get there, if Sherlock had been here then I’m sure he’d have cleared his name in a quarter of the time and we would have been eating Chinese takeaway while he corrected the telly by now.” A tiny nostalgic smile crossed John’s face and a brief light sparked in his blue eyes before it disappeared again. “But he’s not here, so it was down to me. It had to be me because I’m the one who put him in the firing line in the first place.”

“What? What on Earth are you talking about, John?” Sherlock blinked in surprise as he shot a look at his brother for an answer. Mycroft merely indicated towards the TV with his head. John had looked down at his feet and shifted his weight, which he tended to do when he felt uncomfortable.

“For the five years before we met, he was doing what he loved best, solving the strange and unusual cases that the police couldn’t – for free. For the love of the challenge, the intellectual puzzle. Then I came along, with my ordinary, boring life and I start blogging about Sherlock and his work.” Doctor Watson paused for a moment to breathe and rein in his emotions. _‘Is he angry? No, it’s guilt. Dear God, he feels guilty! Why?!’_

“Eighteen months later and he’s on a pedestal that he never wanted to be on, ‘The Reichenbach Hero’, Europe’s golden boy. It was my doing so I tried to warn him, prepare him for what was coming… because I knew that the only thing the viewing public loves more than a meteoric rise to fame is a dramatic fall from grace… and yes, I chose that phrase deliberately.” Sherlock’s gasp had echoed the few audible from the press as John’s eyes flashed in fury.

“Moriarty may have engineered the events that drove Sherlock into that corner but the groups represented in this room were very quick and eager to nail their colours to Richard Brooks’ mast. The fact that over two dozen officers came to execute a warrant for one person who initially came along quietly says it all really.” John’s glare was directed behind the journalists sitting in front of him, probably at the police officers standing at the back of the room. 

“Almost every single person blamed the mirror for the fact they didn’t like the person staring outwards when Sherlock reflected their lives back at them. Because that’s all Sherlock was, a mirror, he wasn’t pointing out anything that wasn’t already there. He did it to me too. Yes, he had as much subtlety as a neon sledgehammer but I couldn’t blame him for MY flaws, could I?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in a small smile at this passionate speech from someone who so clearly understood him better than anyone else.

“Do you know how long it took me to start throwing doubt on Moriarty’s false identity once I started looking? Half an hour. Thirty minutes to find the first hole in his backstory. The kids tv media company he claimed he worked for in 2008 didn’t exist until 2010 according to Companies House when I searched for the registration number. Three hours to realise that the ‘oldest friend’ of Brooks was attending a boarding school in Wales when he was supposedly playing pranks on Mr Dylan, the maths teacher, with ‘Rickie’ in the East Midlands.” John’s fixed stare made more than a few people shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“But hey, why let the truth ruin a great headline, right? God forbid that anyone might double check the details before hysterically accusing a man of staging crimes, planting bombs and abducting children. The press and the media hold so much power over the masses, they can make the public believe whatever they want them to. Is it too much to expect that when a person’s whole life and reputation is at stake, that the press will exercise that influence carefully and with discretion?” John paused for a moment before he let out one of his gusty sighs, a sign that despite his words, he didn’t expect anything to change. Not permanently at any rate.

“Maybe Moriarty would have still found a way to manipulate Sherlock into jumping that day, even without the witch-hunt, but now we’ll never know. The truth has finally come out but a great man is still dead and we all have to live with that, including me… Thank you for your time, I won’t be taking any questions and please, go fuck yourselves.” John turned from the podium as the room erupted in noise and flashes, Doctor Watson ignored the press clamouring for his attention and offered Mrs Hudson his arm again as they quickly left the room.

“How long ago was the report published?” Sherlock asked as Mycroft used the remote to turn the TV back off, just turning his body on the chair rather than turning it back around. “What’s John been doing with himself since he cleared my name?” There was a trace of worry in his voice because it looked like the doctor felt responsible for setting Sherlock up for a fall. _‘Ridiculous! Moriarty knew about me before John and I even met. Hope said as much before he died.’_ What would John have had to occupy his time with once he’d successfully completed his crusade?

“That was seven months ago. Since the live evidence phase of the Inquiry closed, he’s been working in the Accident & Emergency department of the University College Hospital. After the report was published, Detective Inspector Lestrade extended a personal invitation for Dr Watson to assist the Metropolitan Police as a part time Medical Examiner, which was probably why it was accepted.” Mycroft replied before he suppressed a yawn behind his glass.

“That’s good then, John is much more suited to emergency medicine than general practice.” Sherlock closed the manila file and tossed it back on the desk as he stood up. “I need to go and see him immediately, he did so much for me while I was away, more than I ever expected him to do. Plus, his sign off at the end of the press conference was so brilliantly John that I feel like I should bring him a bottle of this whiskey, he’ll love it!”

“Sherlock! It’s quarter past one in the morning. If you go and see Dr Watson now, he’s likely to think he’s delusional from exhaustion. Stay with me tonight, I’ll have Anthea find out his schedule so you can plan how best to approach him.” Mycroft got up from his desk, going to grab his coat from the stand while the detective grudgingly put his scarf around his neck. “He’s also very likely to punch you, you are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’ll take it if it makes him feel better.” Sherlock replied distractedly, he was already collating all the new information he had about how John had spent these last two years. Mycroft was right, _‘Annoyingly’_ , there was a risk that his friend wouldn’t forgive him for the deception, so he had to give his comeback the best chance at succeeding.


	2. Chapter Two

John yawned as he walked through the aisles of the Tesco on his way home from the hospital. He’d just done a six till three shift and knew if he went home before he got his shopping, he wouldn’t want to leave his flat again today. He had just put some milk in the basket hanging from his arm when his phone started ringing, he pulled it out and grimaced at the screen. _‘Every. Damn. Time.’_ He thought as he answered it.

“Doctor Watson. What’ve you got?” John asked, supressing another yawn, he was on call for the Met this afternoon, which meant he could be summoned at a moment’s notice. Like now. “Alright, text me the address and I’ll be right there. I’ll need my spare kit.” The doctor cut off the call and put his basket on the shelf in the freezer, he didn’t like just abandoning his shopping for someone else to put away but he had a job to do.

John jogged out of the supermarket and jumped into a waiting taxi sitting in the rank and gave the driver the address that had been sent to him. John settled himself back in his seat and looked out the window as the streets of London passed by. He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched out his bad shoulder to try and remove some of the ache. The former soldier was often tired and sore nowadays with his two jobs, but he didn’t mind really, he preferred to be busy and felt useful again.

When the cab pulled up outside, he paid the driver and hopped out. The doctor nodded with a smile at a couple of familiar faces as he ducked under the police tape and headed in to the room where forensics had set up. John grabbed a pair of dark blue scrubs with ‘Medical Examiner’ printed across the front and back in white and pulled it on over his clothes.

“Hey, Doc, good to see you. Got your bag right here.” Sally Donovan approached him as John bent down to put on some disposable protective shoe coverings.

“Thank you, Sally, I appreciate it.” The ex-soldier replied sincerely as he stood back up and took his kit from her. “Right, where’s the body?” The Detective Sergeant led the way with a smile and John found himself grateful they’d managed to get past the initially god-awful tension and awkwardness the first few times their paths crossed at crime scenes after Sherlock’s name was cleared.

_John was kneeling by the body of an elderly man examining him, while Detective Inspector Lestrade leaned down slightly to speak to the doctor._

_“Looks like it might be natural causes, but the autopsy will confirm that for us, I’m sure.” Greg commented while John picked up one of the corpse’s hands and looked it over carefully before reaching over the body and doing the same with the other one._

_“Could be. You said that he had no known family or friends, right? But someone has been helping him to dress.” John looked up at Lestrade, at receiving a blank look, the doctor picked up the man’s hand again._

_“Look at these red marks. These are scalds from hot liquid, old and fresh, probably from tea. Both of his hands are covered. So, obviously, his hands shook a lot. But this fiddley button-down shirt he is wearing is done up perfectly, so who cared enough about this man to make sure he was dressed properly and where are they?” The DI realised what his friend was trying to point out and clapped him on the shoulder before calling for one of the forensic photographers to come over. Donovan, who had been watching the exchange, felt a spike of jealousy at the sign of approval and couldn’t resist a spiteful dig._

_“Looks like the Freak rubbed off on you in more ways than one then.” She watched as both John and Greg went rigid for a moment and she braced herself for a verbal onslaught. Lestrade looked like he was about to give it to her when Doctor Watson got to his feet and put a hand on the Inspector’s arm to stop him before turning to the woman._

_“Sally, Sherlock is dead. Insulting him can’t hurt him anymore.” If Donovan had expected anger in his tone then she was surprised, John just sounded tired and incredibly sad. “The only people you are hurting right now are the ones who miss him. You might not particularly care about upsetting me but I don’t really think you want to hurt Greg.”_

_Sally took a sharp intake of breath as she looked at both of their faces, for the first time really seeing their lingering grief and bereavement. Her cheeks flamed in shame at her cruelty as she looked down at her feet, mumbled an apology and beat a hasty retreat._

Since then, Donovan hadn’t said a single word about Sherlock and John Watson managed to slot into place alongside the officers of The Metropolitan Police. His skills and professionalism plus his affable nature were such that he was now known as the ‘Doc’ or simply ‘Doc’. Greg had told John over a pint that a nickname pretty much meant he was officially one of their own.

“She’s right here…” Sally opened the door to the living room and John’s eyes watered as a wave of stale alcohol, smoke, vomit and general filth assaulted his senses. A face mask was waved under his nose by Anderson and the doctor took it and put it on.

“Thanks, Phil, if I wasn’t awake before then I am now.” John blinked the last few tears away and took in the room properly for the first time. The living room look like a tip exploded. Empty vodka bottles, beer cans, pizza boxes and cigarette butts littered the room. Whatever colour the carpet used to be, it was now a mottled brown with stains and threadbare patches.

There was an equally filthy three-seater couch against the back wall, a small coffee table covered in scratches, plus a sturdier looking unit with a cheap flatscreen TV on it. Lying face down among the squalor was the body that the doctor was here to examine. John approached the corpse, kneeling next to the woman. As was his habit, he lowered his head for a moment in respect for the dead before reaching into his bag and retrieving some latex gloves.

“What do we know about her so far?” He looked up at Sally who retrieved her notebook and flipped to the most recent sheet.

“Ms Paige Alcorn, 51 years old. The body was discovered an hour ago when someone from her local pub came around because they hadn’t seen her in there today which was apparently very unusual. Last confirmed sighting was around 10pm last night when she was kicked out of the bar by the landlord for causing trouble.” Donovan finished speaking and John nodded to show he’d heard. He took a small dictaphone out of his bag and placed it next to him, setting it to record his observations as he got to work.

“Subject presents as an alcoholic based on the environment around the body, the subject’s jaundice appearance, broken capillaries around the nose and information given to Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan that Ms Alcorn was a regular in her local pub. There is a wound on the right temple which appears to have been caused by the subject falling and striking her head against the edge of the coffee table.” John was methodical as he gently examined the cut on her face before lowering her head back down.

“It’s likely the accident itself wasn’t fatal though she was probably knocked unconscious. Judging from the puddle of vomit the body is lying face down in, Ms Alcorn was sick at some point and either choked on or aspirated the liquid making asphyxiation the preliminary cause of death.” John got the temperature probe out of his kit.

“Ambient temperature in the room is 15 degrees C. Liver temperature is… the same. That puts time of death at least fifteen hours ago, which would have been around one in the morning. However, I pause to note that there doesn’t appear to be any electricity or heating on in this flat and the subject is wearing multiple layers against the cold, so plus or minus half an hour to recorded TOD is recommended. Rigor mortis is consistent with these observations.” John picked up his dictaphone and stopped recording, putting his things away and removing his gloves.

“Thanks, Doc, we’ll take it from here.” Anderson signalled for the gurney so they could collect and remove the body, taking another glance around. “I know we don’t know her situation, but it’s hard not to look at all this and wonder how the hell it gets to this stage?” The former soldier sighed as he picked up his bag to get out of the way.

“Slowly, I’d imagine, drip by drip. What starts as a glass of wine every evening to unwind after work then becomes a drink in the morning to get through the day and so on. Addiction creeps up quietly and most people don’t spot the danger until it’s too late… and if at that point, there’s nothing they care about enough to stop the slide? Then it’s darkness all the way down.” John replied slowly, he was more qualified than most to speak on the subject. Alcoholism ran in his family, his elder sister was a prime example of the danger, so John always made sure that his relationship with alcohol was as healthy as possible.

“Definitely makes you think, that’s for sure.” Phillip shook his head again before glancing at the doctor. “You head back to the station and file your paperwork, you look done in. I’ll bet you had an A&E shift today too… you’re gonna burn out if you keep pushing yourself.” John held up his hands in surrender with a small smile.

“Guilty as charged! You know me, I like constantly being on the go. But thanks for caring, Phil, I’ll catch you later!” John waved goodbye to Sally and the other officers as he stopped briefly by the forensics equipment to remove his protective gear before grabbing another taxi and heading for New Scotland Yard.

It was another hour and a half before John Watson arrived back at 221 Baker Street. He was starving but he had barely anything in his flat so it looked like he was ordering in tonight. _‘Unless Mrs Hudson has ‘accidentally’ made too much for herself again’_. As he opened the front door, he heard the door to 221a opening as if she’d been waiting for him.

“Ah, John! I’m glad you’re back! There’s someone here to see you.” The Baker Street matriarch reached out to greet her tenant and friend with a hug and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“To see me?” John asked bemused, he hadn’t been expecting anyone today. He turned to take his coat off as Mrs Hudson gestured to her flat.

“Yes, he’s just inside having a cup of tea. His name is Mr Doyle, he said he’s often seen you in the supermarket having to rush off before you’ve even finished shopping. He said it happened again today but this time he took your basket and paid for it, bringing it here for you.” She explained as she gripped on to the former soldier’s arm to take him into her flat.

“What, really? Wow! What a ridiculously nice thing to do for a stranger.” John was flabbergasted as he followed into the kitchen and saw an elderly man with wiry grey hair, solid black framed glasses, wearing a thick green trench coat. “Hello, Mr Doyle was it? I’m John Watson, it’s nice to meet you and thank you for getting my shopping for me.” Doyle stood up when John offered him a handshake, the doctor noticing he was tall but slightly stooped with age and his hand was large and warm as he gripped it firmly.

“It was no bother, lad, from what I’ve seen you obviously work hard, making an honest living so I was glad to help. I remembered you from the papers, I just hoped that you still lived here and luckily you did.” The voice was deep with an edge of a Yorkshire accent. Mrs Hudson went to her fridge and opened it, pulling out the carrier bags.

“I kept them in here while we waited so the milk and other fresh stuff wouldn’t go over. Not that it’s warm enough to spoil really quickly but better safe than sorry.” John went and grabbed the bags from her.

“Thanks, Mrs H, you are an absolute star. Mr Doyle, come down to my flat and I’ll pay you for these and get it put away.” Doyle nodded his agreement and the pair of them went past the stairs that led up to 221b, to John’s door. “There’s steps just behind the entrance, they are sometimes a little damp from condensation so take care, don’t want you to slip.”

“Well, you’re a doctor, I’m sure you could patch me up if I did come a cropper.” Mr Doyle commented with a chuckle as he followed John down into his basement flat. John laughed as he flicked on the lights and turned a thermostat on the wall and the heating immediately kicked on.

“True, but I’ve already worked twelve hours out of the last twenty-four and I’m looking forward to some food and a cup of tea.” John put the bags on the counter and rooted around in them for the receipt. “Ah! Here it is, have a seat, Mr Doyle, I’ll put the kettle on and get my wallet.”

“That’s good of you, Dr Watson. I’d say that you owed me nothing for the shopping but I can tell you’re a man who can’t stand owing a debt.” Doyle had opted to come and stand in the doorway of the kitchen rather than sit down.

“You’re not wrong! Not wrong at all.” John grinned with another laugh as he put the shopping away. Thankfully the flat was beginning to warm up nicely, the basement got cold but the renovations had improved the insulation so it didn’t take too long to heat through. “What sort of tea would you like? I’ve got PG Tips, Earl Grey or even some chamomile in.” He’d put the electric kettle on to boil and turned to his guest.

“PG Tips sounds g- is that a human skull?” Doyle stopped mid-sentence to point over to the other counter with a curious expression. John looked over to it with a huff of amusement.

“Oh yeah, it’s a memento… and well, a glorified paperweight now. It belonged to my fr-” When he turned his eyes back a moment later, gone was Mr Doyle and Sherlock Holmes was standing in his stead with the widest smile on his face.

“Hello, John, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again.” Sherlock had dropped the accent, speaking in that baritone that the doctor thought he’d never hear again, at least not in this life. John was frozen in shock, his mouth opening to say something but before he could get a sound out, John swayed and his eyes rolled back in his head as he passed out.


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock managed to dart forward quickly enough to catch John before he cracked his head on the kitchen table. The detective lowered his friend to the floor gently with a worried frown. _‘At least ten kilograms lighter than before. Unacceptable. Must rectify this as soon as possible.’_ Sherlock thought as he retrieved the half-bottle of whiskey he’d brought out of a pocket in the trench coat and gathered the ex-soldier’s upper body in his arms.

“Here, take a sip of this and wake up, John.” Sherlock rested the doctor’s back against his own chest, his head on his shoulder. He opened the bottle and wafted it under John’s nose before putting it to his lips and letting a little of the alcohol trickle in. It did the trick as John began to come around.

“Ah, good, you’re ok, thank god! I must apologise, John, it seems my flair for a dramatic entrance gave you quite a shock and you fainted briefly. Though the fact you’ve not eaten since a ham and cheese sandwich from the hospital canteen at lunch probably didn’t help much.” Sherlock watched John’s face carefully as a multitude of emotions flashed back and forth in John’s eyes before the doctor scrambled away from the detective, getting to his feet and backing himself into a corner of the kitchen.

“John, I know you must be very confused right now…” Sherlock got to his feet deliberately slowly, not wanting to startle or provoke his friend any. “… and you’ve likely got a number of questions that I’ll happily answer, but please try and remain calm.” John snorted incredulously at that as he folded his shaking arms over his chest and finally found his voice again.

“Explain.” Never had so much been said in so little words. Sherlock took a deep breath, knowing that whatever he said next was likely to be decisive in whether John ever forgave him. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back to centre himself as he paced slowly at a respectful distance from the doctor.

“I faked my death, I anticipated that Moriarty’s end game was to make me kill myself after destroying my reputation. Therefore, I came up with a plan, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it. I arranged for you to be called away and met Moriarty on the roof. He told me to jump or you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would be killed by snipers.” Sherlock could feel the intensity of John’s stare, absorbing every word, intonation and facial expression.

“Moriarty slipped up, and for a moment I thought I wouldn’t have to fall back on my plan. He could call off the snipers, I would have done whatever was necessary to force him to make that order. So, he killed himself, knowing I had to do the same to save you.” The detective looked up at that point, John was trembling from head to foot, digging his fingertips into his upper arms so hard that he was going to leave bruises.

“Ok, so that explains why you jumped. But why did you stay away for nearly two years?” John’s voice was hoarse with supressed emotions, he had a stranglehold on his feelings that mirrored the grip he had on his own body.

“I went undercover to destroy Moriarty’s network. I knew if I showed back up before I’d dismantled it then there was still a threat to the safety of the people I cared about. His web spread out all over the world and taking it down, cell by cell, was painstaking and time consuming but I came home as soon as I was finished.” Sherlock had stopped pacing and was standing in front of his friend, just within arms reach. His fingers twitched behind his back with the surprisingly strong urge to pull John into an embrace to still the tremors wracking his smaller frame.

“Who knew? Mycroft, presumably, but was anyone else in on it?” John asked him, managing to get the words out around the lump in his throat. There was a paradoxical wave of understanding that passed over the doctor’s face at realising that the elder Holmes wasn’t as cold and unfeeling as he’d thought, the lack of visible grief making sense finally.

“Yes, he knew. Molly also assisted with a suitable corpse and the death certificate.” 

“Molly knew?!” John exploded, his face reddening. Sherlock took a step back to avoid being run over as it was John’s turn to pace. “Christ, Sherlock! You could have told me! I could have helped you! You know I’d have done anything you asked me to!” The betrayal in his tone was so thick that the detective stumbled over his words in his attempt to address it.

“I-I know you would have, John! But you’re not exactly the best actor out there and I needed the network to truly believe I was dead.” Sherlock felt the urge to take a large swig of the scotch straight out the bottle at the wounded look in the ex-soldier’s expressive blue eyes.

“My God! Is that why you made me _watch_?! …Well? I’m right, aren’t I? You needed me to be the devastated best friend so you could swan around the world under the radar!” John was keeping back the tears with sheer force of will alone and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed to regain some composure before he whispered accusingly. “How could you do that to me? I thought we were friends!”

“We were! We are!” Sherlock blurted out in a panicked tone. _‘Things are going awry. I need to redirect the conversation away from the deceit and on to the fact I’m back.’_ “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused but it was necessary! Look at it this way, you wanted one last miracle, you asked me not to be dead and I’m not, I’m here!” John went completely rigid and the air temperature between them dropped sharply.

“You absolute… bastard! You watched me cry at your graveside and _beg_ you to stop this and you still let me suffer for two years!” John’s arms were down by his sides and his hands were clenched into tight fists. _‘He wants to punch me. Good. Cathartic for him, plus he’ll feel guilty and less mad.’_ Sherlock thought just as John twisted his body at the last second, slamming his clenched left hand into the wall with a noise of anguish and frustration.

“Nnngh! Fucking basement walls!” John spat out as he cradled his fist close to his chest and walked over to the sink, running his bloodied knuckles under the cold tap. “Well, that’s broken. Lovely.” The doctor grumbled to himself as he tried to flex his fingers. Sherlock found himself rather relieved that he hadn’t been on the receiving end of that punch after all.

“Here, this might dull the pain a little.” Sherlock put the whiskey bottle on the counter by the sink, his eyes flicking everywhere as his brain scraped around for a way to salvage this situation.

“Yes, because drinking right now would be a fantastic idea, you idiotic twat!” John cursed as he switched off the water and carefully dried his hand with a tea towel. “Why did you even bring that? You can’t seriously have thought I’d go ‘Welcome back, mate, here’s to not being dead. Cheers!’?”

“I brought it for you, to thank you for what you did while I was… away.” Sherlock was chewing on his bottom lip and his restless hands were fiddling with the hem of his suit jacket in anxiety. “Mycroft told me about your campaign and showed me a recording of the press conference you gave. I can only imagine the amount of time and effort you put in to clearing my name, case by case.”

“I didn’t do it because I wanted your gratitude, Sherlock! I wanted your forgiveness because I failed you!” John’s voice broke and he turned his back on his friend’s shocked face as he choked on his words. “I couldn’t p-protect you… I couldn’t save y- Christ! I can’t! I can’t deal with this!” John turned around and looked towards the stairs in desperation, shaking and almost overcome with emotion. Sherlock knew that a John overwhelmed usually led to a John going ‘Out’ and possibly staying away all night, so the detective moved into John’s path to block his exit route.

“No, don’t go! Don’t retreat! Talk to me, John, tell me what you’re feeling right now! Make me understand! You were always the one that I looked to for guidance whenever I hurt people accidentally because I didn’t anticipate the effect my actions would have on someone emotionally.” Sherlock gulped when John gave a hysterical little laugh at being asked to explain ‘sentiments’ to a man who always despised them.

“Do you know the one thing you used to do that I hated more than anything else, hmm? It was when you asked for my views or opinions on something, only to turn around and humiliate me by showing me how stupid I am compared to you.” John raised his hand to forestall the detective interrupting him. “No, Sherlock, ‘Don’t be upset, John, practically everyone is an idiot.’ isn’t as much of a comfort as you seem to think it is.”

“Friends don’t make friends feel stupid, humiliated or useless or used or alone. I could forgive you anything, and I often did, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t still sting.” John wrapped his arms around his torso, wincing when his hand throbbed as he hugged himself tightly.

“What are you trying to tell me, John?” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper, knowing that his friend was baring his soul to him right now, so he wanted to make sure he got the message.

“You asked me how I’m feeling? God, I missed you so much, I had so much pain in my heart because you were gone. Now? All that grief has turned to humiliation and it fucking hurts twice as much because you tricked me, I fell for it and I spent the best part of the last two years mourning for someone who was alive all along.” John swallowed again, pulling himself back from the brink of sobs once more. Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

“I’m so sorry. It was never my intention to humiliate you. Not now nor any of those other times, please believe me.” The detective felt his own throat constricting as he was forced to face the damage he had unwittingly caused his dearest friend. 

“I know that, Sherlock, but the fact remains that you did humiliate me… hurt me.” The last two words were barely audible as John closed his eyes and two traitorous tears fell and traced his cheeks before the doctor hurriedly wiped them away. “I’m actually very happy you’re not dead, truly, the world needs Sherlock Holmes… but I feel like I’m drowning. I just don’t see how we can ever go back to how we were before.”

“I’ll do anything, John, just name it. I want to fix this! I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise!” Sherlock didn’t want the image of his best friend’s tear streaked face stored in his Mind Palace but he wouldn’t delete it either. He needed to be reminded that no matter how logical the choice he’d made, there was a very real and human cost… and John had paid it for him.

“It’s not going to be as easy as that, I-I think I just need some time to process this.” John turned, and with shaking hands, he started to make the cup of tea that he had forgotten about when Sherlock had shed his persona. “Can you let yourself out? I want to be alone for now.”

Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath, mind reeling for something to say, something to make things better but he came up empty. Instead, he gathered up the remains of his disguise, settling for just pulling on the trench coat and shoving the wig and glasses in to a pocket.

“Um, well then… I’ll just… be going then. Um, my number is still the same. Text me… if you like.” The detective fumbled, John still had his back to him and refused to turn around. “Again, I’m sorry, I hope you can forgive me… I’ve really missed you.” Then he finally turned and darted up the stairs and pretended he didn’t know that John would break into pieces as soon as he heard the door close.


	4. Chapter Four

John woke up the next morning with a start, he groaned as his body reminded him that sleeping in his chair wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. He glanced at his watch and realised he’d only had four hours sleep at best, having collapsed in emotional and physical exhaustion after trying to process that Sherlock wasn’t actually dead.

It was then that the doctor noticed that someone had covered him with a blanket at some point and when he caught sight of the tea tray on the table, he realised it had to be Mrs Hudson. There was a teapot with a tea cosy on it along with a plate of scones and a jar of jam. John lent forward to feel the porcelain, it was still warm enough for a decent cuppa, so he decided to go have a quick shower before breakfast.

After he’d showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes, John realised his phone was still in his coat pocket and he quietly stole back upstairs briefly to retrieve it. He couldn’t face Mrs Hudson right now, especially if she knew about Sherlock as she probably did by then. She’d be thrilled to have him back and the ex-soldier was still feeling too overwrought to respond appropriately. As he headed back downstairs, he saw he had a message from the early hours of the morning.

:: John, let me make it abundantly clear to you. You didn’t put me in danger; Moriarty was watching me before we met. You didn’t fail to protect me; I never gave you the chance to do so. You need to forgive yourself because it’s obvious it wasn’t my forgiveness you were seeking. – SH ::

The doctor sighed at the screen as he sank down on his chair again. _‘Look at him, back less than a day and he’s already reading me like a book but being completely confused by my feelings otherwise.’_ John took the cosy off the teapot and poured himself a cup, deciding to drink it black because he needed the caffeine. He was on call again for the Met today starting at nine and he needed to stay sharp.

Once he’d had some tea and scones, the doctor grabbed his medical bag and set about bandaging his left hand. He put some padding over his bruised knuckles before using medical tape to strap and support it. _‘Should have iced it last night really.’_ John thought as he got up and headed into his kitchen, he picked up the whiskey bottle as he passed and put it in the fridge before leaning down to open the freezer and take an ice pack. He’d just sat back down on the couch when his phone rang.

“Good morning, John!” It was DI Lestrade and the doctor could tell from his elated tone of voice that he was also aware of Sherlock’s return.

“Morning, Greg, this a social call or do you have a body for me?” John replied, maybe a little colder than he really intended. It wasn’t the Inspector’s fault that Sherlock was an idiot who thought faking his death and lying about it for two years was acceptable behaviour between friends.

“Geez, John, you sound like shit! Did you even get any sleep last night?” Lestrade asked, but when it became apparent that John didn’t intend to answer that question, he continued. “Suit yourself. I’ve got a woman who has been stabbed to death, I’ll text you the details.” John mumbled his goodbyes and hung up, thrust his phone in his pocket, grabbed another scone, shoving it in his mouth before picking up his kit and heading out the flat.

Greg met him out the front when John’s taxi pulled up, the former soldier saw the DI give his hand a knowing look but didn’t comment on it. Instead he launched into what they knew so far.

“Alexa Harris, aged 25, lived here with her fiancé, Patrick Underwood. Neighbour called the police at hearing a loud row, not unusual, but the screaming afterwards was. Uniformed officers looked in the front window and saw her lying on the floor and forced entry.” The pair of them walked in sync, having done this routine a number of times in the last six months, they’d got it down to a fine art.

“Has the fiancé been found?” John asked pertinently as he pulled on his scrubs and protective gear. When he walked into the front room, his gaze was automatically drawn to the body of the young woman, she was lying on her back in a pool of her own blood and he could see at least two wounds.

“Not yet, we have an APB out for him but no hits so far.” Greg waved to the crime scene. “The photographers have taken their pictures, so it’s all yours, do your thing, Doc.” John gave his friend a small smile as he approached Alexa, he knelt down next to the body, being careful not to disturb the blood evidence. 

As the doctor reached into his bag to get his gloves, he noticed some deep indentations in the carpet. _‘Someone has moved the furniture recently.’_ John glanced around and saw a couple of dark fibres on the floor. _‘Slivers of leather? The couch looks like the right material and colour. The couch has been moved and cut for some reason but not anywhere that’s visible from the front.’_ Lestrade had noticed that the doctor had gone quiet and was about to speak but John raised his hand to silence him.

Very quietly, the former soldier took his dictaphone out of his bag, rewinding slightly to the observations he’d made the last time he’d used it and pressed play. He put it down as a decoy and got to his feet slowly. John motioned at Greg, pointing to the couch and indicating that they should take a side each.

Once they were both in position, the Detective Inspector mouthed ‘On three. One. Two. Three.’ and the pair of them grabbed the couch and yanked it away from the wall. There was a startled yelp and a young man half fell out of a flap cut into the leather at the back of it, their suspect had been hiding in the seat frame.

“Patrick Underwood, I presume?” Inspector Lestrade spoke with authority as he began to read him his rights. “You are under arrest for the murder of Alexa Harris. You do not have to sa-” But when Greg reached for the man, Patrick decided he wasn’t going to come along quietly and he rushed at John to escape.

John evaded the first swing that the murderer aimed at him by reflex alone, sweeping his leg in an attempt to knock Underwood to the ground. High adrenaline caused the suspect to dodge just in the nick of time but he now had a clear path towards the back door. Patrick took off sprinting, he was almost there when he was rugby tackled from behind and sent sprawling to the ground.

“Nice work, Doc, here, do the honours.” Lestrade handed his handcuffs to the doctor who was now kneeling on Patrick’s back to stop him getting away as the DI finished reading him his rights. “Spotted a bloody knife still inside the couch, so it looks like it’ll be an open and shut case, thanks to you!” John got to his feet while a couple of uniformed police officers picked Underwood up to take him back to the station. 

“Well, it’s just a good job I happened to notice the couch had been moved.” The doctor grimaced as he flexed his left hand, the scuffle not doing his injury any favours. “Right, back to the day job.” John went back to the corpse to resume his examination.

“You really should get that hand seen to, John, I’ll take you after you’re done.” Greg looked down at the doctor, who glanced back up, ready to protest. “I’m not giving you a choice, mate, I’ll arrest you if I have to. You know I will!” John grumbled with a sigh as he went back to work.

A few hours later and John was sporting a splint on his left hand, having broken his third metacarpal bone with bruising to the second and fourth. The doctor had filled his friend in on what had happened last night, neglecting to mention the fact he’d fainted at the big reveal or that he’d cried himself dry afterwards.

“I’m impressed you only punched the wall, Doc, how can someone so intelligent be so thick at the same time? How’d he think you’d react? His ‘death’ nearly destroyed you. There was a time when I was afraid you were gonna follow him.” Greg shook his head as he helped John put his coat back on, the struggle with Underwood had pulled his already aching shoulder too.

“He is an idiot when it comes to emotions. You literally have to explain it to him like he’s a child. As far as he’s concerned, he’s back now so it’s places as usual. Like we’re meant to delete the last two years.” The doctor replied as he tested the motion of his fingers while wearing the splint.

“Fat chance. That first six months when I was suspended was the worst of my life, nothing to do except think about what I would have done differently and wondering if it would have led to another outcome… and I knew that you must have had it ten times harder than I did. I just wish I could have been there for you more.” As a condition of his suspension and his provisional reinstatement, Lestrade had been forbidden from contacting John directly. John put a hand on the DI’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze as they left the hospital.

“I know, Greg, it was out of your hands. Don’t keep beating yourself up about it.” John told him as he pulled his phone out of his pocket to take it off of silent mode and blinked. “What the hell?! I have seventeen missed calls and god knows how many messages! …Oh no, they’re all from journalists, they must have caught wind of Sherlock being back from the dead. Fantastic.” John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“They probably want you to comment on it then, and to ask you if you were in on it from the start, I guess. Come on, I’ll take you home, they’re probably camped out on your doorstep. I’ll make sure you get inside as unmolested as possible.” The Inspector offered as he led them to where he’d left his car.

Back at Baker Street, the pair of them got indoors without anyone getting punched and/or arrested, John slammed the front door behind them with a lot more force than required.

“I hate journalists so much, god damn vultures!” He growled as he attempted to take his coat off and failed, Greg helped him again without a word as Mrs Hudson came out of her flat to see what all the noise was about.

“Oh, John! What have you done to yourself this time?” She asked him in a voice full of maternal concern when she saw the splint and how stiffly he was moving. John was about to wave her off and say he was fine when Sherlock appeared in her doorway behind her and he lost the ability to speak for a moment.

“The good doctor here caught himself a murderer!” Lestrade declared, pointedly ignoring John’s glare as he filled the others in on how he’d realised the suspect was hiding at the scene and then rugby tackled him to the ground when he tried to escape.

“Very impressive.” Sherlock fixed John with a look of pride and admiration. “Nice idea to use your dictaphone to cover the fact you were on to him.” Normally when Sherlock praised his former flatmate in the past, his face would light up in appreciation of the rare recognition, but in this instance, he just half shrugged in discomfort.

“Yeah, well, this time my hunch was right and there was a guy hiding in the back of the couch. Any other day and the victim would have rearranged the living room just before they were killed and I’d look like a paranoid berk. Anyway, can’t you get Mycroft to do something about those parasites out there?” John changed the subject and waved an annoyed hand towards the front door.

“We’re drafting a statement for them that we’ll release later and then they shouldn’t have any reason to hang around after that.” Sherlock waved his phone to indicate how he was conversing with his brother. John muttered something under his breath as he rubbed at his tender shoulder.

“You should get a hot bath, dearie, you slept in your chair last night, didn’t you? No wonder you’re so sore, poor thing.” Mrs Hudson fussed over John as he dropped his hand from his war wound with a self-conscious clearing of his throat.

“As lovely as that sounds, my bathroom doesn’t have a tub, it only has a shower.” The doctor answered, beginning to feel the lack of sleep and the pain affecting his mood and he didn’t want to snap at his landlady.

“Don’t be silly, John, you can use the one upstairs now!” Mrs Hudson told him as though it was the most logical thing in the world. The former soldier froze momentarily and his eyes darted to Sherlock before returning to her.

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” John said shortly before looking back over his shoulder, “Thanks for the escorts today, Greg, call me when you next have a day off and we’ll go for a pint. Mrs Hudson, I’m probably going to have a nap now so don’t disturb me unless something’s on fire or someone’s dy…” 

John’s jaw shut with an abrupt snap at what he was about to say and instead of finishing his sentence, he just silently walked to the door of 221c, unlocked it, and closed it behind him with a click.


	5. Chapter Five

A week later and Sherlock was waiting for John in the basement flat, laid out on his couch. He glanced at his phone, the doctor should have finished his shift at the hospital by now and he wasn’t on call this afternoon, so hopefully they could talk uninterrupted.

The detective had moved back into 221b once it was aired out, but it wasn’t the same with his friend living two floors below. Sherlock couldn’t even hear him pottering around when he was home, like he used to when they lived together. He didn’t know he’d miss that sort of background noise until it was noticeably gone. The pair had barely spoken since that first day, it was awkward, uncomfortable and Sherlock didn’t know how to break the tense stalemate.

Everyone had an opinion, of course. Mrs Hudson just said that John would come around in his own time. Lestrade told him to be persistent, sincere and not to emotionally manipulate John. Molly suggested that he should try and see it from John’s point of view. Mycroft had offered to engineer some life-or-death peril in order to force the ex-soldier to realise that Sherlock being back was more important than hurt pride.

 _‘Mycroft’s idea is Plan D; I’ve tried doing this Mrs Hudson’s way and given John some space. Hopefully it’s been enough time for cooler heads to prevail and I’ll combine Lestrade and Molly’s advice.’_ Sherlock thought as he heard the front door open and sat up, straightening out the rumples in his suit jacket. When John came down the stairs wearing the dark blue uniform of an emergency A&E doctor, he jumped slightly when he spotted his visitor but he recovered quickly.

“Can I help you?” John asked in exasperation, skipping the question of how Sherlock got into his locked flat. He’d broken into enough buildings with Sherlock in the past to know there were very few locks he couldn’t pick.

“Yes, I wanted to talk to you. More than the handful of words we’ve exchanged as our paths crossed in the hallway, I mean.” Sherlock answered as he instinctively took in John’s appearance to see what kind of day he’d had. _‘Shoulders slumped, left more so than the right; long shift and in pain. Shopping bags; tired and doesn’t want to go back out again. Scent of sweat, iodoform and ethanol; busy the whole time, didn’t stop for lunch.’_

“Do we have to? I’ve only just got the splint off from the last time we spoke.” John looked at the detective expectantly, but at getting no response, he sighed heavily. “Fine. Just let me put these away and get a shower, I’ve got eight hours of hospital ick on me. Make a cup of tea if you want to be helpful.” The doctor walked into the kitchen and quickly unpacked his bags before heading into his room to grab a change of clothes before going into the bathroom.

Sherlock jumped to his feet when he heard the water running, striding in to the kitchen and filling the kettle, turning it on. He dug out two mugs and prepared the tea. He began looking through the cupboards for some biscuits or something for John to eat, deciding he needed to take his friend out soon to get a proper meal in him for once. _‘Oh, how the tables have turned, it would be amusing if John wasn’t practically gaunt. Ah, here we go, custard cremes, perfect.’_

Sherlock got everything placed on to a tea tray and carried it back into the living room, putting it on the coffee table as he heard the shower shut off. He settled back down on the couch and a couple of minutes later, the doctor walked out of the bathroom dressed in his normal clothes and towelling off his short hair. When he was done, he tossed it into a wash basket and sat down in his chair heavily.

“Thanks for the tea, I appreciate it.” John picked up his mug, blew on it before taking a small sip. Sherlock could practically see the tension in John’s face bleed away as he relaxed. “So, what did you want to talk to me about then?” The detective had picked up his own cup in the meantime, clearing his throat nervously before he spoke.

“Have the media been bothering you anymore?” Sherlock started lamely, watching as blue eyes flashed at him in warning, knowing that wasn’t the reason for this conversation. But the doctor answered it politely nonetheless.

“There’s a couple that are being persistent, nothing that I can’t handle really. They are just wanting to paint me in a bad light because I ripped them a new one at that live press conference and they can’t believe I wasn’t in on it.” John replied, putting his mug down so he could grab a couple of the biscuits to address the gnawing hunger in his stomach.

“I know you are capable of looking after yourself but if you get fed up with them then text Mycroft the names and he’ll sort out a restraining order or something. He has his lawyers on the lookout for any libellous statements about us and is seeing to their retraction if they find anything.” Sherlock never much cared what people said about him, not then and not now, but he wouldn’t have anyone smearing John’s good name.

“Noted. I’ve been meaning to speak to Mycroft anyway.” John brushed the crumbs from his shirt while his friend gaped at him. “Don’t look at me like that, I owe him an apology. I’ve spent two years freezing him out because I thought he’d screwed you over, only to find out that leaking your life story to Moriarty was part of the plan all along.”

“Don’t say sorry to him, you’ll only make him even more smug and insufferable. It’s not like he has any feelings you can hurt.” Sherlock grumbled as he took a sip of his drink and grimaced, he hadn’t put enough sugar in it, opting to dunk a custard creme in it instead.

“No, I will apologise even if he doesn’t think I owe him one. I’ve been a right bastard to him and he didn’t actually deserve it.” John replied with a small shake of his head, his shoulder was bothering him so he began stretching it out as he spoke. These exercises were so familiar to him, he could probably do them in his sleep.

“But don’t forget he was in on the plan too!” Sherlock found himself bristling defensively and getting irritated despite himself. “How can you have forgiven him but not me? That’s hardly fair!” _‘Bother, now I’m whinging, that’ll definitely help matters.’_ The doctor stopped working on his shoulder and calmly folded his arms across his chest.

“Now we get to the real reason you’re here. In answer to your question, Mycroft was never my friend, even before you jumped. You were, Sherlock. The one person I’d let myself get close to since before I was first deployed… and you took that trust I gave you and abused it. Not for the first time, I’ll admit, but there’s a world of difference between testing drugs on me and making me watch you die and using my heart to play the long con on the criminal underworld.” Unlike that conversation a week ago, John’s voice was steady and even. He wasn’t shaking and he looked the detective straight in the eye as he spoke.

“Dear God, John! I’m sorry! How many times can I say it? Do you want me to beg? Is that it? What more do you want from me?” Sherlock got up from the couch in agitation, running a hand through his hair as the discussion got away from him again. The former soldier fixed him with a cool look, downing the last of his tea with a gulp and putting it back on the tray.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Consulting Detective. Sorry is the absolute bare minimum I should be expecting from you, but saying it doesn’t magically make everything better. It’s just a word.” John sighed at Sherlock’s lack of understanding and grabbed the plate the biscuits were on, tipping them off and getting to his feet as well.

“Right, so imagine for now that I’m you and this plate is me, ok?” The doctor asked, holding the plate vertically at arm’s length. When Sherlock nodded, John opened his hand and the plate fell to the ground, cracking into three big pieces and a couple of smaller splinters before John spoke to it on the floor. “Sorry about that, but it was a necessary action to save your life… Now, did apologising and offering an explanation to the plate fix it?”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock answered, trying to work out what John wanted to show him. He’d got that just apologising wasn’t working even before this demonstration, what he didn’t know was what was actually required. At a loss and wanting to break the silence, Sherlock blurted out his next thought. 

“Anyway, this analogy isn’t well suited to the situation because the act of ‘protecting’ the plate has probably caused just as much destruction as any attempt to ‘kill’ it would have done.” Sherlock jumped slightly as John clapped his hands together twice with a cheer and a blinding grin.

“No no! It’s a perfect analogy because that is _exactly_ what I was trying to show you!” The doctor deflated when he noted the continued lack of comprehension from the detective. “What I want from you, Sherlock, is for you to actually understand what you put me through and why it was wrong… and I’m scared that I’m asking for the impossible because you Just. Don’t. Get it.” John scrubbed at his face with his hand in frustration before he spoke again.

“Look, I’m gonna head out. I need to think. I need to work out whether the fact you don’t understand is a deal breaker for me or not. Come and find me in a couple of hours.” John grabbed his shoes and sat down briefly to pull them on.

“I will but where will you be?” Sherlock looked down at John as he chewed on his lip in worry, he didn’t like the thought that today could be the end of everything that they had shared together… for good. He wished he could influence the decision but Lestrade’s warning stopped him, the choice had to be John’s alone.

“Really, Sherlock? I would have thought the answer to that would have been obvious.” John stood up with a smile, a small one but genuine. “Apart from here, there’s only one other place in London that’s an appropriate backdrop for a life changing meeting between us.” The side of the detective’s mouth twitched upwards minutely in understanding.

“Very fitting, I agree. You’d best get going then, don’t worry, I’ll sort this out and see you later.” Sherlock waved at the broken plate and leftover tea things. John nodded his thanks, straightened his spine and walked out the flat without another word.

Two hours later and Sherlock pushed open the door that led onto the rooftop of St Barts, it was coming on to evening but there was still enough light for the detective to spot John. The doctor was hiding from the worst of the wind by hunkering down near a bank of air conditioning outlet vents.

“Why up here and not the morgue?” Sherlock asked as he turned his collar up to try and stay a bit warmer. John got to his feet to greet him; he was physically shivering as he blew into his freezing hands.

“I wanted somewhere quiet, the morgue has pathologists who might have distracted me… and Molly’s not my favourite person right now, either.” John admitted as he stuck his hands in his pockets. “This is the first time I’ve been back to Barts; you know. Not even one step on the grounds in two years. Though at one point it felt like I came here every single night in my dreams.” Sherlock searched John’s face, trying to anticipate his decision. But he couldn’t read his expression for once.

“Has being up here helped you to think?” The detective tugged his gloves up higher on his hands, wishing he had some thicker ones for once. John nodded in answer, turning so he was facing Sherlock straight on.

“Yes, yes it has. I still think what you did to me, Mrs Hudson and Greg was wrong but I accept that you thought the ends justified the means. I don’t agree, but that’s ok, friends can disagree on things and still be friends. Or if it needs spelling out any clearer, I don’t need to agree with you to forgive you.” John had barely finished speaking before Sherlock had grabbed him by both shoulders, squeezing them tightly with joy and relief.

“That’s absolutely fantastic, John! I’ll make sure you don’t regret it, I promise you! Oh, this is going to be great, I’ve missed having you around so much! We need to make up for lost time! Le-” Sherlock’s brain was firing wildly with plans now he had his companion back.

“Hang on, hang on! I know you’re excited and I’m glad about that but I haven’t finished yet.” The doctor managed to prise himself out of Sherlock’s grip but he was smiling. “This doesn’t mean the last two years didn’t happen, things can’t go back to how it was before, not exactly at any rate.” Sherlock scowled petulantly at his friend as he spoke.

“Don’t pout at me, you’re a grown man! …As I was trying to say, I was left with nothing when you were gone because pretty much everything I was doing before involved you. It’s not healthy to be so dependent on another person so I’m going to keep on working for the hospital and the Met. I’ll help you out on the cases but I’m not going to be at your beck and call, ok?” John watched Sherlock’s face to make sure he was actually listening and not just humouring him.

“Fine, alright. But you are planning to move back upstairs, aren’t you?” The detective replied begrudgingly, he could cope with his assistant having another job. _‘We were doing that before and it had worked out… mostly.’_

“Yes, but I’m gonna need some time to arrange things, a lot of my furniture is going to have to go because there’s no room upstairs. Plus, I’ll need to pack up what is coming with me. I’ve got a couple of days completely clear in about ten days, I’ll move back in then if you’ll help me.” John decided he’d had enough of freezing to death so turned to head towards the door back inside.

“Of course I’ll help, it’s not as if I’ll be going out of my way really. Just a few flights of stairs.” Sherlock opened the door and let the doctor walk through. “But first, let’s go somewhere and get warmed up. We could go to Angelo’s if you’re hungry? Kill two birds with one stone.” John’s stomach growled as if on cue, making the pair of them laugh, the tension between them finally dissipating.

“Looks like my stomach would overrule me even if I wanted to say no, which I don’t… and you better not be planning to make me eat on my own either.” John threatened and Sherlock feigned a reluctant acceptance, hiding a grin in his scarf as he followed John into the lift. This. This is what he’d been missing.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Discussions of past suicidal ideation and intent.

John carried a box up the stairs to flat 221b, he noted that the living room was even more of a tip than usual and that wasn’t just because he was moving his stuff back in. The doctor put a box on the coffee table and opened it, pulling out a familiar skull, crossing the room to put it back on the mantelpiece.

“There you go, old fella, back where you belong at long last. You must be relieved.” John said to himself before adding a silent _‘I know that feeling.’_ He could hear Sherlock upstairs in his bedroom having grabbed a box of his clothes to bring up on the last trip from the basement. The former soldier sank down on the couch to go through the rest of his box, looking up at hearing a loud yell.

“JOHN!” That shout was followed by the sound of someone stampeding down the stairs like a herd of demonic cows. Sherlock swept into the sitting room with his eyes flashing wildly and absolutely livid, the dramatic effect not lessened any by the lack of his signature coat. He had something in his hand and he held it up for inspection. “What on Earth is this?!”

“You’re the detective, what does it look like?” John had gone rigid, undermining his attempt at nonchalance, so he tried to deflect the attention. “Why are you going through my things anyway? I asked you to take the stuff up, not to unpack it for me.”

“Why are _you_ hiding enough sleeping tablets to kill a shire horse in a box filled with clothes? I tripped and heard something rattling and last time I checked fabric doesn’t rattle! Where did you get these? When did you get these?” Sherlock was glaring at John for all he was worth, clearly not about to let this go without some sort of explanation.

“I had a lot of trouble with sleeping a while back, so I went to see someone and they prescribed me a few months’ worth of lorazepam. But I was worried about becoming dependant on them so I didn’t take them in the end and my insomnia resolved on its own.” John was still unpacking his box as he spoke, not looking up at Sherlock as he did so, praying that he’d take the hint and drop the topic.

“Even if I believed that was your real reason for getting them, which I don’t, it doesn’t explain why you’ve kept them unopened nor why you were trying to hide them from me. You keep your lidocaine plasters and other painkillers in the medicine cabinet. So why not do that with these, hmm?” John could hear Sherlock tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for a response. 

“No answer for me? Not even to deny the obvious implications? Fine, I’ll assume I’m right then. I’ve always known you were a man ruled by sentiments, John, but I thought you were smarter than this! How could you be so idiotic as to plan to com-”

“Shut your god damn mouth, Sherlock!” John’s tone demanded compliance, a relic of his army days. John stood up and glared at Sherlock. “You have no business being angry with me for struggling to cope. You can get mad at Moriarty for trying to destroy you or yourself for leaving me behind but don’t you dare shout at me for grieving hard… that was my ‘role’ remember?” The doctor snatched the bottle of pills from Sherlock, intending to put them in his bag so he could get them recycled safely the next time he went to work at the hospital.

John went back to unpacking in silence, aware that Sherlock hadn’t moved but otherwise ignoring him as he put his books on the shelf. John jumped as he was embraced from behind, lean arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders and upper torso.

“Sherlock?” The doctor asked in a confused voice, frowning in concern when he realised that his friend was trembling. He attempted to turn around but the detective tightened his hold and wouldn’t let him.

“I’m not sure what I would have done if I came back to London to find you’d killed yourself in the meantime.” Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible, but not quiet enough to hide the quiver in his tone. “I wasn’t angry with you, not really, I think I was just shocked at realising that you being safe and well when I got back was an assumption, not a certainty.” _‘Heartless sociopath my arse.’_ John thought as he reached up and squeezed Sherlock’s wrist in comfort.

“It’s alright, don’t torture yourself with what might have happened. I’m here, you’re here; that’s what matters, right?” He felt the detective give him another small squeeze in lieu of an answer before finally releasing him. “Come on, there’s only a couple more boxes to bring up then you can do an experiment or something while I unpack.”

A few hours later and John came back down the stairs into the living room, he’d just finished putting away all his clothes and was looking forward to relaxing and enjoying the remainder of his day off. He’d just sat down on his chair when Sherlock appeared and thrust an open tub of ice cream under his nose.

“John, here, try this!” Sherlock had already stuck a small spoon into the top of it. The doctor took the tub in his hands and looked at his friend suspiciously.

“What have you done to it?” John asked, having learnt the hard way to distrust any food or beverage offered by consulting detectives that he hadn’t seen being opened or prepared. _‘I had hoped for a grace period before being experimented on again but evidently not.’_

“Nothing! Mrs Hudson bought two tubs and didn’t like them so she gave them to me. I ate the open one last night and thought I’d share.” Sherlock insisted with an encouraging smile but at seeing the distrusting look, he grabbed the spoon and scooped up some of the ice cream. “Oh, for God’s sake! I’ll have a bite first… see? It’s safe, I promise you!” John took the spoon back and used it to take a small mouthful, making a face.

“That doesn’t taste like any ice cream I’ve ever had before, what is it?” The doctor looked at the tub to see it was a lactose-free ice cream made with coconut milk and thus suitable for vegans too. He had another small bite and shook his head. “Nope, I’m not a fan. You can keep it for yourself, thanks anyway.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go back to examining it’s molecular structure so I can identify it if I come across it at a crime scene.” Sherlock took the tub and headed for his microscope in the kitchen. “Not often I have experiments I can eat after.” John smiled to himself as he listened to the detective’s musings, grabbing the paper to read.

About quarter of an hour later, John found he had a lump in his throat that he just couldn’t clear, so he put his paper back down to go fetch a glass of water. However, when he stood from his chair, he felt his head spin and he had to reach out and put a hand on the mantle to steady himself.

“John? Are you alright?” Sherlock called through the open sliding doors that led to the kitchen. When John turned towards him, the detective gasped in shock and rushed over. “Your face, John! Your eyelids and lips are swelling up. Can you breathe ok? I think you are having an anaphylactic reaction to something; you need to sit down.”

“Get my bag, now.” The doctor allowed Sherlock to ease him back into his chair, noticing a wheeze as his throat constricted due to the rapid swelling. “999 too.” Sherlock froze in terror for a moment so John gave him a push to get him moving. Sherlock scrambled up the stairs to John’s room and came running back down with his medical kit.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were allergic to coconuts?!” He hissed accusingly as John opened the bag and dug through it, finding an auto-injector of epinephrine. He uncapped it and pressed it into the meat of his thigh and held it there for several seconds. The ex-soldier’s breathing was becoming more laboured and Sherlock got down on his knees in front of the chair. “What do I do? Tell me what to do!”

John couldn’t speak anymore due to his tongue swelling so he pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed it into Sherlock’s hands. The detective stood up and called for an ambulance, managing to explain the situation to the operator even though his voice betrayed his alarm. 

Meanwhile John was feeling hot and trying not to panic himself. He managed to take his jumper off on his own but his hands were shaking and damp with sweat so he struggled to undo the buttons on his shirt. Suddenly Sherlock was pulling him from the chair.

“The dispatcher said to lay you down on the floor, the ambulance will be here soon. Just stay calm and try to breathe as best as you can.” Sherlock carefully lowered John towards the floor, kneeling next to his head, monitoring his respiratory rate while he held his wrist to take his pulse. “I cannot believe you never told me about your allergy!”

“Didn’… kno…” John coughed and managed to wheeze out a couple more syllables before Sherlock shushed him. John was breathing a little bit easier now, the synthetic adrenalin abating the reaction a touch. There was a knock on the door and two paramedics ran up the stairs into the living room when they were let in by Mrs Hudson.

“Hello, Dr Watson, you know if you wanted to come to work today, all you had to do was ask.” A young man with short red hair knelt down on the floor, putting an oxygen mask over John’s face while his female counterpart grilled Sherlock.

“Can you get what you suspect set this off in a clean plastic bag for me? Then wash your hands thoroughly, face as well if you’ve been eating it too.” The detective jumped to his feet to do as he was told.

“It looks like the epinephrine you took is reducing the swelling, your oxygen saturation is going up and heart rate is coming down. But let’s get you to the hospital for some tests and observation anyway.” The cheery man told John as they got their patient loaded on to a stretcher. John tried to protest that he was fine but his voice came out croaky and he gave in.

John heard Mrs Hudson’s worried voice as she saw them coming down the stairs. Sherlock said something to her but the doctor didn’t catch it. He was breathing more freely but with that came a wave of utter exhaustion. He stopped trying to follow what was going on and instead let it all wash over him as he was placed in the back of the waiting ambulance.

Much later and John was watching as Sherlock systematically examined every product, food or otherwise, in their flat for coconut or any derivative thereof, throwing any offending items into a bin bag that he was dragging behind him.

“Hey! That’s your ridiculously expensive hand moisturiser, you don’t have to throw that out. It’s not like I’m going to use it, so it’s fine.” John rubbed the crook of his arm where he’d had a load of blood taken earlier. Sitting on the table next to him was a couple of fresh autoinjectors and a box of antihistamines.

“But it has coconut oil in it. If I use it, you could come into contact with it then you could asphyxiate on our floor and I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime, I thank you!” Sherlock declared dramatically as he found something in the back of a cupboard. “Aha, look here! Macaroons! These were a death sentence waiting to happen! What if you’d decided to eat these when I wasn’t here to call an ambulance, then what?” John looked up at the six foot of manic detective waving a packet of cookies at him and sighed. _‘I give in, I’ll let him cleanse the place if it will make him feel better.’_

Once Sherlock was certain their flat was an allergen free zone, he took the rubbish bag down the stairs to put in the outside bin. John was dozing in his chair when his phone buzzed with a message.

:: Do I wanna know what tropical fruits have done to upset His Highness? I’ve just been ordered to eradicate coconuts from NSY. – GL ::

:: Sorry. I had a bad allergic reaction earlier and he got a little rattled, but I’m ok now. – JW ::

:: That explains everything. Glad you’re alright, mate. Take care. – GL ::

John smiled down at his phone, putting it away in time to hear Sherlock demand entry into Mrs Hudson’s flat, getting up with a tired sigh to run an intervention on her behalf.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Discussions of parental neglect.  
> Descriptions of war and blood.

Two days later and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, looking through a stack of papers with interest. He heard the stairs creaking and John yawned as he padded in to the living room in his dressing gown, heading straight for the kettle.

“Morning, what’s that you’ve got there?” The doctor asked as he retrieved two clean cups and set the water on to boil.

“Your medical records.” Sherlock replied seemingly distracted, though he was keeping half an eye on his friend as he skimmed the pages.

“My what?! Those are private, you wanker!” John stalked towards him, pausing in the doorway that separated the two rooms as he made a conscious effort to control his temper. Sherlock watched him mentally counting to ten, get to five, give up and snap. “WHY do you have my medical records?”

“I wanted to see if your coconut allergy had been spotted before and you’d just forgotten about it and also whether you had any others. No on both counts.” The detective answered as the kettle popped. John headed back to it and prepared the tea, bringing the mugs into the living room and sitting on his chair. “I have spotted something that’s quite intriguing though, apart from routine vaccinations there’s no entries for you during your childhood up until your mid-teens.”

“And what can you deduce about that, smart arse?” John was tense and his gaze was icy. _‘Acidic tone; warning me. However, he’s maintaining eye contact like he’s challenging me to work it out.’_

“Well, either you were the absolute paragon of health…” Sherlock put the papers down and steepled his fingers together as he spoke. “…or more likely, you were never taken to the doctors, regardless of whether you were sick or not.” The detective could tell he’d got it right when John sank back into his chair with a deep sigh of resignation, sipping at his tea for a moment before he spoke again.

“You know what I don’t get? It’s why some people have kids if they aren’t going to show any interest in actually raising them right or being a part of their lives. I was in university before I realised that normally parents prepare and cook meals for their kids beyond the age of ten. Don’t get me wrong, there was always plenty of food in the house, me and Harry were just expected to feed ourselves if we were hungry.” John stared into his cup so he didn’t have to look at Sherlock’s face.

“Most mornings I went to school having only eaten a couple of packets of crisps for breakfast. One time when I got back from rugby practice, I was so hungry I took a microwave meal out of the freezer and ate it as is… I don’t recommend that by the way.” John looked up with a small forced smile that Sherlock couldn’t return. The doctor had never spoke about his childhood, only mentioning his older sister on occasion and very rarely his parents.

“I could have not come home sometimes after school and Mum and Dad would never have known the difference. Harry actually did that a lot, I covered for her the odd times that they did notice, we were a lot closer back then.” _‘Would John have told me about his sister of his own accord if I hadn’t deduced her existence from his phone when we first met?’_ Sherlock thought for a moment as he watched his friend nursing his cooling tea before continuing.

“The pair of us both tried to get their attention in different ways. Harry went to extremes to try and provoke a reaction, bunking off school, shoplifting, drinking, drugs, you get the idea. When she came out, I initially thought she’d done it for the shock factor, not that it worked anyway. They accepted it without a problem, Harry actually looked disappointed rather than relieved.” John put his empty mug down and picked up his Union Jack pillow instead, needing to hold on to something.

“As for me, I threw myself at the books. I was in the highest set for all my subjects, took up rugby as an extracurricular activity, joined the school orchestra… all for nothing. They never went to a single show, match or parents evening. Pretty sure none of my secondary school teachers even knew what my mum and dad looked like. So, I went to medical school on a full merits-based scholarship and they were no-shows at my graduation ceremony.” John picked at some fluff on the sleeve of his jumper, trying not to let his bitterness show on his face.

“As a last throw of the dice, I enlisted. I thought that if there was a real chance of me dying then they might finally take some interest in me while I was still alive. Worked about as well as Harry announcing she was gay. But as it turned out, the Army was perfect for me, it was a place where my hard work was noticed and I fit right in. I decided then that blood doesn’t have to mean anything, you can pick your family if you really want to.” John fell silent after that, staring into the fireplace, no doubt reliving his happier times with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Sherlock was quiet too as he absorbed this new information. Most people that he’d met in his life had needed almost constant praise and reassurance in whatever they did. John was a rare exception; he was very forthcoming with his own compliments but didn’t seem to require much back. Whenever someone did praise the doctor, he was always pleased but very modest about it. These personality traits made perfect sense now he had the appropriate context.

“Are they still alive? Your parents?” Sherlock asked finally, snapping John out of his thoughts.

“Probably, I haven’t spoken to them since my passing out parade after basic training when I called to tell them I was being deployed to the Middle East. Not sure they even know I got shot and discharged.” John replied in an off-hand manner as he got up to take his empty cup in to the kitchen to wash up. Sherlock checked the time on his watch and jumped to his feet.

“Get dressed and grab your coat or we’re going to be late.” The detective declared to his bemused flatmate. “I took the liberty of booking you an appointment for a skin prick test with an allergist, so we can be absolutely sure that we won’t have a repeat of earlier this week.” John just blinked at him for a second before seemingly deciding it was easier just to go along with it than argue.

A little later and the pair of them were in a small treatment room, John had his jumper and shirt off and the doctor was drawing a grid on his back before she started to apply the different allergens. As Sherlock’s eyes fell on to his friend’s scarred left shoulder, he recalled the first time that John had let him see and examine it.

_It was around six months after they’d started living together. John was out on a date with another vapid woman that Sherlock could never remember the name of. The detective was stretched out on the couch, going through some older parts of his Mind Palace, checking what knowledge should be refreshed and what could be safely deleted._

_The sound of John’s feet on the stairs wouldn’t normally have distracted Sherlock’s attention from his mental clean up if he hadn’t been able to discern the former soldier was limping again. The psychosomatic limp that he’d cured the doctor of the first day they’d met. The detective leapt to his feet as John got to the door of the sitting room._

_“What happened?” Sherlock asked with a frown of concern, his eyes immediately scanning over his flatmate to try and work out what was wrong. “Obviously your date didn’t end well. Dinner went fine, or you would have been home earlier. You were both enjoying yourselves so she invited you back to her place, that’s when things went awry.” John sighed and walked into the kitchen, away from his prying friend but Sherlock followed him._

_“Did she decide she wasn’t ready to take the relationship physical? No, that doesn’t explain your frankly despondent mood. You’re a true gentleman who would have accepted that with respect and decorum. Though things did get a little heated if that tiny love bite on the back of your neck is anything to go by…” John cursed and slapped a hand to the nape of his neck to hide the offending mark, darting around the detective, attempting to evade even more scrutiny._

_“So, what happened? Some sort of physical incompatibility perhaps? No, the fact you are limping suggests an injury to your pride or self-esteem. What could have caused such a – Oh!” Sherlock’s stream of consciousness ended when he finally hit upon the right answer. “She said something about the gunshot wound on your left shoulder.” John’s growl of annoyance morphed into a tired sigh as he scrubbed at his face with his hand._

_“She didn’t say anything about my scar… but she did recoil and then she couldn’t touch me. I had warned her but evidently it was a lot worse than she’d thought it would be. So, I put my shirt back on and came home.” The doctor flushed in shame at the memory before he finally looked at Sherlock’s face to see his reaction._

_“I’m sorry that you met someone so conceited that their reaction to the physical manifestation of your bravery made you feel self-conscious about your body.” The detective felt a protective stab of annoyance at the woman for shaking his friend’s confidence._

_“Well, if that isn’t the weirdest apology I’ve ever got, then I don’t know what is.” John mumbled as he went back into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of malt whiskey that Lestrade had given him on his birthday. He pulled two small glasses out of the cupboard and held them up to his flatmate. “Care to join me?” The former soldier sat at the kitchen table and poured them both two fingers as Sherlock took a seat next to him._

_“You know, a lot of people say my scar is evidence of my bravery or my strength. It makes me laugh because it’s utter rubbish. I look at it and I remember how I got it and how there isn’t anything brave or strong about me.” John took a small sip of the amber liquid in his glass._

_“May I see it?” Sherlock asked suddenly, he had been curious about the injury that had warranted John being invalided home and honourably discharged but there had never been a good opportunity to bring it up before. The doctor thought for a moment before he nodded silently, putting his glass down and undoing the nice dress shirt he’d been wearing for his date._

_“I didn’t realise that you were shot from behind.” The detective commented, noticing the larger exit wound that spidered outwards across John’s chest. He could tell that he’d been shot by a .50 calibre sniper rifle at distance. “May I touch it?” Sherlock’s hand hovered lightly until John’s single nod gave him permission._

_“It got infected and you had to have two operations on it… I’m impressed that you have the range of motion and dexterity that you do despite all the nerve damage this must have caused.” The detective’s touch was clinical but careful not to press too hard as he examined the entry wound on the back before returning to the front. “Slight temperature difference between the scar tissue and the skin on your other shoulder. Does it hurt a lot?”_

_“It aches most days, but I can manage pretty much as normal if it stays at that level. I have to use lidocaine plasters and painkillers when it flares up. Cold and damp seem to make it worse. But I’ll take that level of pain and discomfort for the rest of my life if it means I don’t have to go through something like that again.” John shuddered slightly as he took another sip of his drink._

_“Do you want to tell me about it? Your main complaint with people saying you’re courageous or strong seems to be that they have no idea what you went through. You know I have an excellent imagination, if you describe it to me then I’ll be able to picture it.” Sherlock had sat back down on his stool once he’d gathered all the information the scar could tell him. John swirled his glass as he debated revealing the story before he started speaking._

_Sherlock closed his eyes and let John’s narration enter his consciousness to bring forth the scene. There was a convoy of jeeps driving through the desert, the lead vehicle hit an IED, flipping the truck and its passengers. Captain Watson jumped out of the second jeep and ran over to treat any wounded. He found an injured corporal as his unit engaged in a firefight with the insurgents around them._

_The army doctor’s experienced eye told him that the young soldier’s right leg was unsalvageable so he took a tourniquet out of his pack and applied it, stemming the blood flow so his patient wouldn’t bleed out before they got him to the field hospital. The Captain was just moving to stand up when he was shot, if he’d still been kneeling then he’d have taken the bullet to the head and been killed instantly._

_The doctor’s adrenaline was running so high that he didn’t really feel the pain to start with, so he wadded a handful of gauze into the hole and tied it in place with a sling, using his right hand and his teeth to tighten the knot. Then he pulled the corporal over his uninjured shoulder as his unit attempted to fall back to camp. They’d almost made it when they were hit with a secondary ambush and split apart._

_Captain Watson spotted Sergeant Bill Murray, one of his nurses, cut off from the group along with a couple of infantrymen. The doctor passed his patient over and gave the order for covering fire before he darted into the open, sprinting until he reached the isolated troops. Watson led the four of them from the fray while the bigger section of the unit occupied the enemies’ attention. They had retreated into a small sheltered cave when Murray noticed._

_“Cap! You’re bleeding buckets! Let me see!” The Sergeant used a combat knife to cut away the material around the wound and swore loudly. “This is bad, Cap, you need to lay down. Corporal! You need to get to the camp and get us a med rescue. Private! Guard the mouth of the cave!” It was at that moment that the pain hit the doctor like a tank and he threw up._

_Murray took off the leather holster for his dagger and shoved the band between Watson’s teeth for him to bite down on as he got to work to stem the almost torrential bleeding. He packed the gaping hole in the Captain’s shoulder with fresh gauze and pressed down so hard that his superior officer screamed despite the strap in his mouth._

_Time became meaningless for the army doctor; each second was a decade as he felt like his skin was being melted off his bones with a blow torch. Murray was talking to him but Captain Watson couldn’t hear anything except the pounding of his heart, it was so loud that it felt like his eardrums were going to burst. It was at that moment that he mentally begged to God to please let him live._

_“At some point I must have passed out because the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital back in Helmand. I spent the next week or two fighting infection before they went in twice to try and reconstruct my shoulder. It took months and months of recovery before it became clear that I wouldn’t ever be fit enough for combat again and they sent me home.” John finally looked back up as he downed the last of his glass._

_“Thank you for that, I understand what happened now. So, despite the fact you got shot, you just kept going, saving that corporal and going to the aid of your stranded comrades. You ordered your men to cover you while you led Murray and the others to a safer area. Then against the odds, you not only survived what could well have been a fatal wound, you’ve recovered enough usage of that arm that most can’t tell you were ever hurt.” Sherlock’s grey eyes held his friend’s blue ones. “That, Captain John Watson, is_ my _definition of strength and courage.”_

As Sherlock came back to the present, he was pleased to notice that the scar tissue had lost its lurid red/purple shading for the most part in the few years since that conversation. It would never fade completely, of course, but John became less self-conscious of it as time passed.

“I’m having a reaction to something already; I want to scratch my back until it bleeds.” The doctor was practically twitching with the way his skin felt like it was crawling. “You probably memorised what thing she put where, can you tell which one or ones it is?” Sherlock got up from his chair and looked at his friend’s back carefully.

“Horses, by my reckoning, or more specifically, horse hair. Thankfully it seems to be mostly a dermatological reaction judging by the urticaria. Still, I’d stay away from my violin bow if I were you.” The detective commented as he checked the other grid squares for signs of inflammation.

“Noted. Some shaving brushes are made with natural horse hair too, so I’ll have to avoid those… and give up on my lifelong dream to get a gold medal in dressage.” John’s unexpected joke surprised a chuckle out of Sherlock and the pair of them dissolved in to giggles.


	8. Chapter Eight

John was up in his room, standing on a chair as he fixed a portable pull-up bar on the frame of his door. The doctor checked it would take his weight by hanging from it briefly. Satisfied it would hold, he gripped the bar with both hands, pulling himself in to a single chin-up before kicking the chair out of the way so he wouldn’t get caught on it.

John had only managed one more rep when he heard Sherlock running up the stairs, taking two at a time. The detective blinked at him in confusion when he reached the landing, staring dumbly as the former soldier mentally counted to himself.

“What’s up? A case?” John asked between huffs of effort, his upper arm muscles tensing and relaxing as he slowly lifted and lowered himself in well-practised movements. _‘…Oh, for Christ’s sake! He heard strained breathing, then me kicking the chair and assumed I was trying to hang myself!’_ The doctor thought in realisation when he got no answer.

Ever since being forcibly confronted with his friend’s mortality twice in the same day, Sherlock had been a bit overprotective, or completely suffocating if John was asked for his opinion on the matter. It was heart-warming really, if a little annoying at times. It was nice to know that someone cared but it had been two weeks now, John hoped his flatmate would calm down and stop mothering him soon.

“How come you’re working out here and not in the gym?” Sherlock seemed to find his voice again finally. John breathed carefully, exhaling when he pulled himself up and inhaling when he returned to the starting position.

“Because every time I get to the gym I get called up before I’ve even changed in to my sweats. You saw what happened in Tesco’s that time. Though I’ve only recently picked my fitness regime up again, figured I’d need to get back into shape if I’m going to be chasing after you all over London.” John answered as he mentally got to twenty reps and let go of the bar. He moved the chair further out of the way and dropped to the floor to start doing sit ups.

“I used to be able to do fifty reps of everything and run a good ten miles every couple of weeks. It’ll take me some time to get back to those numbers but I’ll get there.” John kept his eyes forward as he worked his abdominal muscles, not sure why Sherlock was still standing there.

“I don’t doubt it, you are the most determined and dedicated person I know.” The compliment nearly made the doctor lose his internal count and he felt his face flush a little, hoping it would be written off as exertion. He was about to reply when Sherlock’s phone rang and he made a noise of disgust when he saw the caller. _‘Mycroft.’_ John thought with a half smile.

“What do you want?” Sherlock answered in an annoyed tone. However, he listened patiently to whatever it was that the British Government wanted from him. “Ugh, how dull. But you’re lucky I don’t have anything else on. Send me the information and I’ll look at it.” Meanwhile John had finished his abdominal crunches and moved on to push ups, something so familiar to him that his pace was almost blistering.

“Some courier has absconded with a tablet that contains some very sensitive government information. Brother dearest doesn’t think the man knows that; he probably just intends to sell the whole thing for some quick cash. It’s all encrypted, obviously, but the tablet needs to be recovered regardless.” John was listening silently as Sherlock spoke, when suddenly those expensive leather shoes came into his field of vision and the detective finished his count for him. “18, 19, 20. Have a shower, I’ll probably have a lead we can start with by the time you’re done.”

Ten minutes later and the pair of them were in a taxi heading to a pawnshop, it was the closest one to the courier’s home address so it was a good place to start looking. When they got there, Sherlock flashed one of the many badges he’d nicked from DI Lestrade at the middle-aged broker and asked to see any tablets he’d accepted that day.

“Serial numbers match?” John asked as he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder as the detective examined the two that had been brought out. At hearing an annoyed grunt of frustration, the doctor turned to the pawnbroker and showed him a picture on his phone. “Recognise this guy?” The man glanced at it, his mouth ticking up in a wry smile.

“Falco? Sure, I do. Shoulda shown me that to start with and saved yourselves some time. Everyone around here knows what he’s like and knows better than to buy anything from him. He’ll be trying to flog that tablet of yours farther away or he’ll still have it on him.” The broker took the gadgets back from them as Sherlock looked at a map that had Robert Falcon’s home address and nearby pubs, electronics stores and pawnshops marked on it.

“Thank you for the helpful information, let’s go to his place, John. I should be able to work out where he’ll try fencing it next if I see his flat.” Sherlock turned up his collar and was about to leave when the man called to them again.

“Wait a minute! You’re Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, aren’t you? I thought I recognised you… is it true that you can look at someone for five seconds and know their life story?” It was slightly amusing to watch a forty-odd year old man going starry eyed over someone but John managed to bite back his laugh.

“Not quite, I can usually deduce the most important things in a few seconds. I’d need an hour or so to know everything there is to know.” John could tell that Sherlock was internally preening from the recognition of his skills before he waved a hand towards his flatmate. “Take my blogger, for instance, I’ve known him years now and there is nothing about him that I don’t know.” The detective was visibly taken aback by the doctor’s immediate snort.

“There’s plenty about me that you don’t know, you arrogant git!” John shot back with a disbelieving shake of his head, watching as a dark light dawned in Sherlock’s grey eyes, the case temporarily forgotten. _‘Oh hell, he’s taking that as a personal slight and a challenge.’_

“Oh really, John? Then please tell me one of these great many secrets you’ve managed to keep from a man of my obvious intelligence and observational skills.” Sherlock replied in a prickly tone that made John hang his head with a sigh, before he spotted something out the corner of his eye and an idea came to him.

“Alright, I will… and if I manage it, then you are buying dinner and you’re actually going to eat it for once.” John straightened up; confident he was going to win this wager as Sherlock nodded. “Turn around.” Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow but did as he was asked.

The ex-soldier turned back to the pawnbroker and raised a finger to his lips, pointing to a transverse flute sitting in the glass cabinet under the counter. The man brought it out while John pulled out his wallet and paid for it. He quickly assembled it as quietly as he could, pushing the head joint into the body followed by the foot joint.

John turned so he was facing Sherlock’s back, taking a small breath to steady his nerves before raising the flute to his lips. He closed his eyes as he tried to imagine himself back in the music room of his old school where he played this song over and over until he had it learnt by heart. John heard Sherlock gasp but didn’t open his eyes as he lost himself in the tranquil beauty of the melody.

“That- that was lovely, John, truly. What was the song? I didn’t recognise it.” When he’d finished playing the detective was looking at his friend with surprise and what looked like awe. John blushed lightly as he took the flute apart and put it back in the case.

“It’s called Gabriel’s Oboe, it’s from a film I saw when I was younger. I fell in love with the song and found some sheet music online where someone had transposed it from the oboe to flute.” John picked up his new instrument case and tucked it under his arm. “You owe me dinner.”

“I do indeed, fair is fair. We can go as soon as we’ve tracked down the tablet. I knew you played the clarinet but I had no idea about the flute.” Sherlock still had a small smile on his lips as he gave the broker a brief nod of acknowledgement as the pair of them left the shop.

“I’m better at the clarinet from a purely technical standpoint, but I like the flute more. God, I haven’t played since before I left home for university.” John adjusted the case as Sherlock flagged down a passing cab. “Can we detour back to the flat so I can drop this off before we head for Falcon’s place?” The detective signalled his agreement by directing the taxi driver to Baker Street before settling back in his seat.

Sometime later found the pair of them walking through the streets visiting places where their courier could unload the tablet he’d stolen. They were heading for a ‘CashConverters’ type place when John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and squeezed it tightly.

“Across the street, denim jacket and green rucksack, that’s our guy!” The doctor hissed in a whisper, trying not to alert Falcon that they were on to him. However, it seemed their thief was hyperaware with nervous energy. He locked eyes with the detective when he glanced over, taking off down an alley with both of them on his heels. John pulled his phone out and called Mycroft on the run.

“Found him! We’re chasing him through SW16 right now!” John didn’t wait for an answer, shoving his phone back in his pockets as he put on a burst of speed to try and close the distance that had opened up as he’d made the call.

Up ahead John saw Sherlock make a hand motion that meant he was going to try and cut Falcon off by taking another route to get ahead of him and he broke off to the left. The former soldier kept the target in his sights, gaining on him until Falco glanced back over his shoulder and caught his foot on some pallets behind a restaurant, sending him sprawling to the floor.

John internally winced in sympathy at the nasty spill as he slowed down and cautiously approached the man on the ground. He was about two foot away when Falcon surged upwards, tackling John into a metal industrial waste bin behind them with all his strength. The doctor had the air knocked right out of him and felt an explosion of pain in his torso. _‘Yup, that’s a broken rib right there. Great stuff!’_ He brought up his leg, using it to hurl the thief away from him and into the opposite wall.

Without giving Falcon time to recover, John grabbed him by the neck and threw him face down to the ground. He knelt on him with his knees in Falcon’s kidneys to stop him from escaping while he opened the green rucksack and rummaged through it.

“Lookie what we have here!” John called in a singsong voice, pulling out the tablet just as Sherlock found them again. He was flanked by a couple of uniformed officers that Mycroft had probably sent along. The doctor handed the tablet to the detective before getting to his feet and wincing with a grunt as he felt a stabbing pain in his chest.

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock asked worriedly as he came to his side. _‘He’s going to lose his mind and smother me if I tell him I’ve busted a rib. It’ll heal on its own, I just want to go home and rest. It’ll be alright.’_ John thought to himself as he straightened up and smiled at his friend.

“We had a bit of a scuffle and he winded me, I’m fine though. Let’s get out of here.” John reassured Sherlock and the five of them headed out of the alley and back to the main street where a larger police presence was waiting for them. Falcon was put in the back of a squad car and John spotted Lestrade and Mycroft standing at the edge of proceedings.

“Here you go, brother mine, a couple of new scratches but otherwise completely intact.” Sherlock handed the tablet over to Mycroft when they reached them. However, John was finding it increasingly hard to breathe. He suddenly had the sinking feeling that he was more seriously injured than he’d initially thought. That’s when he stumbled from dizziness, falling to his hands and knees, gasping in pain.

“John! What’s wrong? …You said that Falcon only winded you!” Sherlock was crouched down and hissing in his ear, the doctor could hear Greg radioing for an ambulance before the inspector got to the floor on John’s other side to help lay him down.

“Yeah, I… might’ve lied… about that…” John swore in pain as he was carefully lowered on to his back, ignoring the venomous look Sherlock threw at him, struggling for breath. “I broke a… rib. Maybe punctured… a lung.” The chest pain was becoming extreme now and the lack of oxygen was making John’s vision fuzzier around the edges.

“Stay awake, Doc, you need to keep those eyes open! That’s an order!” The Detective Inspector’s voice sounded so distant and John’s lips mouthed an apology as his consciousness slipped away from him.

When John awoke next, he knew he was in the hospital before he even opened his eyes. He could smell the ammonia and there was a rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor nearby. The doctor finally prised his eyes open and took in his surroundings. He was surprised to see he was in a private room rather than on a ward. Across from him, there were three figures seated in a line, giving him their undivided attention. Evidently, they had been waiting for him to regain consciousness.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was gravely as he nodded an acknowledgement to the consulting detective. 

“John.” Sherlock replied in the same tone, the doctor noted his hair was messier than usual, he guessed that Sherlock had been running his hand through it in his worry.

“Greg.” John moved his head slightly to repeat his nod to the Inspector who had a paper cup containing whatever passed for coffee in this hospital, it was probably tepid and barely palatable.

“John.” Lestrade answered as he drained the remainder of his drink before folding his arms across his chest, a move that signalled his sour mood.

“Mycroft.” If the civil servant was surprised at being addressed, he hid it well. It was probably the elder Holmes that had pulled some strings to get him a private room.

“John.” He had what looked to be a Blackberry in his hand, evidently still working hard even when holding a bedside vigil. Out of the three of them, John figured that Mycroft was probably the least upset at him. He could be mistaken though; the British Government did have a very good poker face.

“So, what’s the damage?” John asked out loud, he wasn’t in much pain so he guessed he’d already been given the good stuff, there wasn’t a chest tube in place either but that didn’t mean one hadn’t been needed before. Sherlock stood from his seat, clasping his hands behind his back as he approached the bed.

“You were right, one broken rib that had punctured your right lung leading to a tension pneumothorax, the paramedics that arrived shortly after you passed out performed an emergency needle aspiration to release the air from your chest cavity. Scans showed that the tear was minor and indeed it’s already sealed itself without further surgical intervention.” Sherlock’s tone was matter-of-fact but the former soldier could read the flashes of emotion in his eyes.

“That’s good then, looks like they’ve strapped me up well so my rib should heal without causing another puncture if I take it easy.” John looked down at his chest under the papery hospital gown to see his torso covered with thick bandages and medical tape. He looked up at his flatmate’s face again and braced himself. “Go on then, let me have it before you burst something.”

“What in God’s name possessed you to lie to me about the nature of your injuries? We do dangerous work, John; I need to know that if I ask you if you’re ok that I’ll get a truthful answer. Otherwise I’ll be distracted wondering if you’re hiding something from me and maybe miss something of significance with untold consequences.” Sherlock gripped the guard rail on the bed with both hands as he scolded his friend.

“I’m sorry, I honestly thought it was just a broken rib, which I’ve had many times before. I didn’t want to worry you and get you worked up about something that would heal up on its own without needing any specific treatment.” John at least had the decency to look contrite, he knew collapsing and passing out in the middle of the street would have panicked all concerned.

“How absurd! Why did you think I’d get worked up?” Sherlock retorted in the indignant tone he used whenever he felt someone was implying that he had feelings like everyone else whose surnames weren’t ‘Holmes’. Lestrade made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort of amusement but he covered it with a cough and hid his mouth behind his hand.

“Probably because the last time Dr Watson nearly asphyxiated you declared war on coconuts and petitioned me to make them illegal.” Mycroft’s tone was exasperated as he fiddled with his Blackberry. “John was possibly afraid you’d place him in an iron lung until his rib healed if he had informed you.” There was no holding back the Detective Inspector’s peals of laughter this time around. Greg grabbed his coat to beat a hasty retreat before Sherlock could figure out how to make filthy looks kill.

“On a serious note, mate, don’t lie if you get hurt, it’s not worth it. Glad you’re alright and I’ll see you soon!” Lestrade gave them all a warm smile and a wave before leaving the room, still giggling away to himself. Mycroft stood up from his chair, pocketing his Blackberry and retrieving his umbrella from the seat next to him.

“I’ll be taking my leave now too, seeing as the patient is as well as can be expected. Thank you both for your help in tracking down the tablet. Do try and control your urges to coddle the good doctor, little brother, it’s most unbecoming.” John was very impressed with Sherlock for managing to hold his tongue at the verbal dig. Mycroft gave them both a polite nod and left them to it.

An awkward silence filled the space between them, the only audible sounds being that of the heart monitor and the gentle thrum of background activity in the halls of the hospital around them.

“Promise me that you won’t lie about any injuries you have to spare my feelings again.” Sherlock’s bottom lip was still slightly jutting out in an immature sulk but his worried tone spoke of how scared he must have been. John reached out and covered one of the detective’s hands with his own, looking up at him with an earnest gaze as he squeezed it.

“I promise… and you still owe me dinner.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Descriptions of gore/blood.

When Sherlock and John arrived at the crime scene in a black cab, DI Lestrade was outside on the pavement waiting for them, holding an umbrella to protect himself from the dank mid-afternoon drizzle.

“Thanks for coming you two, I appreciate it. The photographers are just taking their pictures then I’ll let you at the scene. Nothing else has been touched. There’s a handful of odd things about this one so it’s right up your street, Sherlock.” Greg led them into the large semi-detached house where John and the DI split off to pull on some protective clothing. Sherlock was looking around the hallway when he felt eyes on him and he turned to see Sally Donovan standing there.

“Hello…” There was a pause where the Sergeant considered adding another word but evidently decided against it. Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow, intrigued for a moment.

“Hello there, Sally, no juvenile name calling today? What should I make of that, hmm? Am I to assume then that you missed my presence these last two years?” He watched as she snorted and shook her head.

“As if. I just have too much respect for the Guv and the Doc to get into any more petty squabbles with you when we’re all trying to do a job here.” Donovan kept her voice down so they wouldn’t be overheard. Sherlock glanced over to where John and Greg were discussing something as they waited for the crime scene photographers to finish up. At least her answer appeared to mean she didn’t think he was a serial killer in the making anymore.

“That’s very magnanimous of you, Sergeant, I suppose I could refrain from voicing anything I deduce about your personal life in future, in the spirit of this continued… truce.” Sherlock held Sally’s gaze when she flicked her eyes over his face to gauge his sincerity before nodding slightly in agreement and the pair fell into silence as they waited.

_‘For God’s sake! This is taking forever. Are they using Daguerreotype plates in there?’_ Sherlock huffed in impatience as he folded his arms over his chest in annoyance. His eyes fell on his flatmate as Lestrade said something that made him laugh so hard that he had to put a hand to his still healing rib with a wince. It had been a week since the Falcon case, the doctor was allowed to help out but he wasn’t supposed to chase and/or tackle any suspects.

“You know, you were right about me, Sherlock.” Sally’s voice broke through his thoughts and he glanced at her trying not to let his surprise show on his face. Donovan was speaking to him but her eyes were on John. “I am jealous of you. I’m an envious person by nature, always wanting more, always wanting what someone else has.” The detective was startled, was she declaring a romantic interest in John? And was she implying that _he_ had John? 

“Don’t look so terrified, I don’t like him that way. I’ve already had enough of workplace relationships, thanks. What I mean is I’m jealous of the way the Doc has dedicated his entire life to you. Even when you were gone, he always stood up for you and was your number one fan. It’s beautiful and humbling. There’s no one in my life that would do that for me.” Sally’s eyes were soft as she looked between the two flatmates with a bemused expression that looked a little longing.

Sherlock was stunned into silence for a few moments; he knew that John Watson was a good man and that he was very lucky to call him a friend. They got along like a house on fire immediately, there hadn’t been anyone that the detective had had that instant connection with before. Initially he’d thought it was down to John being a ‘thoroughly nice guy’ as Greg had once put it to him, but John had recently told him that he hadn’t allowed himself to get close to anyone in a long time. 

The doctor had evidently seen or sensed something in Sherlock that made him want to open up to him. The detective wasn’t sure he’d ever done anything to deserve the kind of loyalty that John showed and continued to show to him, but he silently promised himself to try and become someone worthy of it.

“Si vis amari, ama.” Sherlock eventually replied softly, “Love if you want to be loved. It’s Latin. You should find someone you are willing to do that for first, the rest will surely follow.” The detective gave Sally a small reassuring smile, which she returned for a brief second before Greg announced that the photographers were finally done.

Sherlock walked into the bedroom of Madison Teller, a 38 year old public relations executive for a large telecoms firm. The body had been found by her husband when he returned home from a three day semi-professional golf tournament being held in Birmingham. According to Lestrade, cause of death wasn’t immediately apparent, both eyes had been removed and there were some strange markings on her left forearm made with an unknown tool. So, he’d called in the world’s only consulting detective and his assistant.

Sherlock was looking around the room while John walked to the side of the double bed to check the body, dropping his head for a moment before he got started.

“Feeling sorry for her won’t help her, you know.” Sherlock commented over his shoulder in reflex as he browsed framed photographs of various events and campaigns Madison had had a hand in organising as part of her employer’s diversity strategy. 

“You do things your way, Sherlock, let me do things mine.” John replied as he pulled on his gloves and started his examination. “The body has been dead at least forty eight hours as rigor mortis is no longer present. Liver mortis indicates that the body hasn’t been moved. There’s no obvious defensive wounds or ligature marks, the eyes were removed pre-mortem and are missing.”

“Poor woman; must have been drugged with something then. We’ll do a full tox screen.” Greg wasn’t normally squeamish but the sight of an eyeless face was something that always disturbed him. Thankfully it was rare to come across something like this. “Do you think she bled out?” The once white pillowcases and sheets were covered in blood that had browned due to age and there was a heavy scent of iron and copper in the air.

“No, there’s not enough blood here for exsanguination. A lot of paralytic drugs can cause respiratory depression so I think hypoxia due to an imbalance of carbon dioxide is a more likely cause of death. Autopsy should confirm it.” John answered as he finally picked up Mrs Teller’s right forearm to examine the circular marks.

⠠⠙⠜⠅⠰⠎⠀⠓⠕⠇⠙⠎⠀⠝⠕⠀⠋⠑⠜⠀⠿⠀⠮⠀⠃⠇

“What do you think, Sherlock? Some sort of message? Is it morse code?” Lestrade asked as the detective came over and stood behind John who was leaning down to look at the body.

“No, there’s only dots and no dashes so it can’t be that.” Sherlock replied as he pulled out his pocket magnifier for a closer look. “But it was made very deliberately so it’s definitely a message of some kind, we just have to translate it.”

“It’s Braille. It says ‘Darkness holds no fear for the blind’… and I’d say these marks were made with a 3 or 4 millimetre biopsy punch. It was done post-mortem otherwise the swelling would have distorted the message.” John’s voice took the others by surprise and after a moment of stunned silence, the doctor answered their unasked question. “My Nanna was blind, she taught me.”

“Very impressive.” The detective spoke automatically, yet another thing he hadn’t known about his blogger. _‘Tone of voice: nostalgic and a little saddened. Conclusion: John loved his grandmother very much and she’s deceased.’_ Sherlock added as an afterthought as Greg pulled out his phone to look up Braille to double check the former soldier’s translation.

“Wow, Doc, you’re 100% spot on, well done! Does that mean we are looking for a killer who is blind?” The Detective Inspector asked as John finally stood up, having finished his examination of the body. He stepped back to let his flatmate do his own study.

“Not necessarily, Lestrade. As John has just shown us, one does not have to be blind to know Braille. The blind person referred to might be the victim considering the killer took her eyes. Paralysing her with some unknown drug before mutilating her in this way suggests a very personal vendetta. Was there something she was refusing to see, perhaps?” Sherlock was examining every inch of the body and the bed, looking for trace evidence that would slip by the average person.

“Mrs Teller probably knew her killer, there were two coffee mugs on the table that I spotted when we passed the living room. I’d suggest taking them to test for our mysterious drug. Once it took effect, she was carried from the living room and laid out on the bed. There’s no sign of drag marks so we can surmise that our killer is fairly strong and taller than the victim.” Sherlock was imagining the scene in his mind’s eye, moving around the room in a deliberate manner.

“Does the fact our suspect carried her here rule out someone who is blind?” Greg asked as he jotted down everything the Consulting Detective said in his notepad.

“Not at all. If the blind person is familiar with the space then they can move around with confidence. Some can even use tongue clicks as a form of echolocation to navigate an unknown area.” John replied as he folded his arms across his chest. Suddenly there was a loud shriek of fright that rang throughout the house. When they got to the den, they found Sally comforting a shaken female officer by rubbing her back softly.

“We’ve found one of the missing eyes, sir.” She nodded towards a sideboard unit filled with personal knickknacks. Sherlock approached it and saw the eyeball sitting inside the bowl of a golf trophy. “We’re still looking for the ot-”

“Found it! In the study!” Another officer called from farther into the house. When Sherlock, John and Lestrade arrived, they found two desks facing each other in the centre of the room. The eyeball was sitting in the open drawer of one of the filing cabinets along the wall. Sherlock folded one arm across his chest and tapped his lips with a finger from the other hand.

“How very interesting…” He murmured enigmatically to himself. John moved to his side and looked up at his friend’s face.

“Got something from all this?” The doctor’s blue eyes were lit up with anticipation, ready to watch the detective work his magic by bringing together all the threads that no one else could usually see.

“The killer was definitely punishing Mrs Teller for something she refused to see. The eyeballs have been left to tell us what that was. The Tellers work for the same company, she in PR and him as an accounts manager. They share this study when they work from home, so this ‘secret’ is to do with the firm. The other eyeball was in one of Mr Teller’s golfing trophies, so it’s to do with him.” Sherlock spun on his heels to turn to the Inspector, his coat billowing slightly.

“So, you reckon Arnold Teller was up to no good with the firm and his missus knew something about it but did nothing?” Lestrade asked pertinently and the detective hummed an affirmative noise. “But if that’s true then why punish Madison and not the husband?”

“That’s a very good question! I noticed that their firm seems to be very pro-diversity, hosting awareness events and donating to charities. A large portion of Mrs Teller’s job would be managing these sorts of things as part of an image strategy. It wouldn’t be the first time money meant for good causes was embezzled by greedy employees.” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly as he leant over one desk to examine it as he spoke. At finding nothing more of interest, he straightened up. 

“We’ll need to go through their employer’s finances and follow the money. Finally, a worthy case! Thank you, Lestrade! Let’s go, John! The game is on!” The detective declared in his dramatic fashion, turning to leave the house and follow this lead, his faithful assistant jogging behind him.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Descriptions of gore/blood.

A few hours later found John and Sherlock firmly ensconced in the conference room of Allatel plc, on the table between them were three years’ worth of publicly available financial records. The company was understandably reluctant to open up the books to them without a warrant. So, for now, they were stuck looking for something that would qualify as probable cause.

The doctor was currently combing through the disclosures of related party transactions for any suspicious movements of money. _‘There’s footnotes upon footnotes here, it’s like wading through treacle to work out what is actually being admitted.’_ He glanced up when Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

“Pancuronium bromide; that’s our mystery drug according to the toxicology report. It wasn’t in the coffee though; Molly found a puncture mark on her shoulder during the autopsy.” The detective informed his friend as he sent a quick reply and proceeded to bury his nose back in last year’s Profit and Loss Statement.

“Well that’s a lead of itself. You can pick up biopsy punches online without any bother, but pancuronium is pretty hard to come by. I can’t see how anyone other than a doctor or maybe a scientist could get a hold of it without drawing unnecessary attention to themselves.” John replied as he wrote the name of the drug in his open notebook and drew a circle around it.

“I was right about Allatel, they are very socially responsible for a large company. They’ve donated at least ten million pounds to charitable causes every financial year according to these statements. It doesn’t say who or break that figure down into individual amounts in here though.” Sherlock was using a green highlighter to mark out the amounts on the sheet he was reading. John had an idea and pulled out his phone.

“Let’s see if we can find out who they support, it’s bound to be on their website.” John commented as he pulled up the browser, flicking through the page and reading quietly. “Ah, thought so! Looks like they pick a new cause every year. Three years ago was Clic Sargent, then Amnesty International, Age UK and for this year…” He murmured as he scrolled.

“…Well, what do you know? It’s the RNIB: Royal National Institute of Blind People.” John grinned as Sherlock’s head whipped up at the revelation and they shared a knowing look. “I think that’s enough to get us a warrant. Especially as we’re only part way through Allatel’s financial year so any donations to the RNIB won’t be in these accounts.”

“We might not have to wait for that, we have some leverage now, all we need to do is to apply some pressure.” Sherlock tossed the papers back on the desk, standing up and striding out of the room. John grabbed his notebook and hesitated for a moment about leaving the room in such a tip, _‘Sod it, it’s not my job and only half my mess!’_

When he caught back up to his flatmate, he found him having an intense discussion with Nick Manning, Allatel’s Chief Financial Officer, their point of contact who was currently staying very late to ‘assist’ them.

“Look, Mr Manning, I know you don’t want to believe any of your employees are dishonest but the fastest way to prove that is to let my colleague and I see the books. A list of the charitable events you’ve organised for the RNIB and an explanation how these are accounted for in the system would also be very helpful.” Sherlock could be charming when he wanted to be, which was usually only when he was trying to get something out of someone.

“Alright, let’s go to my office and I’ll give you the access you need. I can also walk you through the policy on donations.” Nick looked uncomfortable with the situation but seemed to accept that they needed to get to the bottom of this, especially if he wanted to go home any time soon. As he led them away, John took the opportunity to get some social background on the players in this case.

“Did you know Madison Teller well?” The doctor asked as he fell into step besides the businessman, he’d been visibly shocked when they had broken the news to him but not much else.

“Not as well as Arnold seeing as he was under my direct supervision and she was in PR. I’m saddened by what’s happened but I wouldn’t have put my relationship with Madison any higher than work acquaintances.” Mr Manning answered as they finally got to his office. He let the three of them in and locked the door behind them. 

“You’ll be seeing sensitive information; I don’t want anyone walking in.” He sat down at his desk and logged on to his computer, bringing up their bookkeeping software, before getting up and letting Sherlock take his place.

“Right, so when we host a charitable event, ticket income and donations are put into a designated account. We open a new one each year when we move causes. RNIB’s account nominal code is 8207.” Nick and John stood behind Sherlock as the detective brought up the account to check the credits and debits. “Then at the end of the given quarter, the amount in 8207 is sent on to the RNIB and is written to the P&L account as a donation.”

“What about expenses for hosting? Do they come out of the income?” John asked as his eyes scanned the screen, every debit had an opposing credit – unsurprising as that was the point of double entry bookkeeping. Any discrepancy would cause an imbalance.

“No, we write those to an overhead account. Everything that we get in goes to the charity. As you can see the only debits are from the bank account, cash and cheque deposits and the only credits are to the Profit & Loss.” Mr Manning lent forward and ran his finger down the screen.

“Hmm, the skimming must be happening before the figures get recorded in the software then. A cheque can’t be cashed in just anyone’s account so that rules them out. What happens when patrons pay for tickets in cash? Is there any opportunity to put a hand in the till, so to speak?” Sherlock turned the chair around so he was facing the pair of them, steepling his fingers in thought.

“Not really, the tickets have serial numbers and we keep paper records so we know how much we should have in ticket income. We do take donations and pledges on the day, depending on the event. Sometimes we host auctions, patrons usually pay for their items by cheque but some pay via cash. In theory someone could take some of the money but we usually have a designated member of the accounts team… in charge… of the lock box.” Nick’s voice started to trail off, horrific realisation dawning on his face.

“We threw a gala day last month for the RNIB, it was a huge success…” Mr Manning covered his mouth with his hand for a moment and shook his head. “…Arnold was the one in charge of the cash that day.” That was all Sherlock needed to hear as he stood up from the chair, unlocking the door and striding for the lift. The doctor gave the businessman an apologetic look before following after.

“Where to now?” John asked as he caught up with the detective before the doors closed, hitting the button for the ground floor.

“I was thinking of working the pancuronium angle next. As you said, it’s hard to get a hold of if you don’t have a reason to need it. It’s used on patients undergoing surgery as a muscle relaxant so hospitals mi-” As the lift stopped there was a ding from Sherlock’s phone, signifying a message. “Scratch that, Lestrade needs us. Our killer has struck again.” John’s stomach sank as blue eyes met grey and a wordless understanding passed between them.

They arrived at the second crime scene not long later, they had briefly detoured to Baker Street for John to grab his gun, its familiar presence tucked into the waistband of his jeans was a huge comfort. They were ushered into a small RNIB charity shop tucked away in Southwark; the Inspector was stood at the threshold of a doorway that led off the shop floor.

“Brace yourselves, lads, this one is even worse, if you can believe it.” Greg told them solemnly and John silently steeled his nerves as they entered the room. This appeared to be a joint storeroom/cloakroom, there were lockers down one wall and bags of donated items down the other. In the centre of the room, there was the body of an elderly woman tied to a wooden chair.

“This is Cecilia Barratt, general manager of this branch of the RNIB. Normally she works in the back while volunteers man the shop out there. She was alive at 5:30pm when the shop closed up and the clerk went home, body was found at 8:22pm when a bouncer at the pub across the way noticed the lights were still on and raised the alarm.” Lestrade informed them as John and Sherlock both approached the body, the doctor lowering his head for a moment.

“She’s been dead less than two hours, no sign of rigor. I doubt he used drugs to subdue her this time judging from the fact he tied her down and gagged her.” John examined the skin at her wrists and saw redness and swelling from her struggles. “Eyes were removed while she was still alive, then he garrotted her with something not immediately apparent.” John’s lips were in a grim line as he glanced around to see if he could spot the murder weapon.

“It’s some sort of wire, there’s flecks of metal in her neck where it cut into the skin. The killer used what was to hand, shoelaces to bind her to the chair after he overpowered her and her own scarf to silence her. My money is on a coat hanger, a wire coat hanger.” Sherlock had been looking at Ms Barratt’s neck with his pocket magnifier before turning his attention to her right forearm. “There’s more Braille here, care to translate it for us, John?”

⠠⠊⠞⠠⠴⠎⠀⠮⠀⠇⠊⠣⠞⠀⠞⠀⠞⠻⠗⠊⠋⠊⠑⠎⠀⠮⠍

“It says ‘It’s the light that terrifies them’ - Darkness holds no fear for the blind, it’s the light that terrifies them.” John straightened up as he mused on the meaning of the messages. “If our killer is drawing attention to things the victims are pretending not to see, maybe the light is a metaphorical spotlight? Shining down on the misdeeds he’s trying to draw attention to? You looked for the eyeballs yet?” The doctor asked as he glanced at Greg.

“Not yet, feel free to have a look around. Just don’t touch them or the murder weapon if you find it.” The Detective Inspector waved a hand to indicate they should go ahead and search the room. Sherlock immediately went to the lockers, picking the locks and opening each one while John started to carefully search through the bags of donations.

“Aha!” Sherlock called out as he opened the fourth locker. There was an eye sitting on the top shelf and a partially straightened out coat hanger on the bar underneath. “This locker belongs to… Alice. So, Alice has done something to upset our killer apparently.” John was only half listening as he picked up a jewellery box and opened it.

“Oh JESUS!” The doctor shouted loudly as he jumped, somehow managing not to drop the box in shock. He was breathing hard as he turned to the other two to show them the eyeball sitting inside among the rings and bracelets. “What do we think? Alice was lifting the best items from the stuff donated before it was officially catalogued and put on sale?” John’s voice was definitely _not_ shaking as he tried to sound normal.

“Probably… Bloody vigilantes!” Lestrade spat out with an uncharacteristic venom. “I know the law’s not perfect! I know it feels like people get away with everything but it’s not true, we’re all doing our best! Except now we have to chase some sick fucker who has taken matters into his own hands.” Greg ran a frustrated hand through his hair, turning to leave the shop and get some air.

John looked after him for a second before noticing Sherlock taking advantage of the lack of police supervision. He leaned into the locker and sniffed at the coat hanger before approaching the body, kneeling down to sniff Ms Barrett’s wrists. The detective had a contemplative look on his face as he quickly checked something on his phone.

“Where to next? We need to get this guy soon, for Greg’s sake if nothing else.” John asked as they left the backroom and went back into the main shop. He was watching Sherlock carefully, recognising the signs that things were beginning to click into place in that magnificent mind of his. The doctor also knew that look usually meant the detective going off on his own to confirm or disprove his theories.

“I think we should split up.” Sherlock replied in that cocksure voice of his. _‘Knew it!’_ “This shop is a lot smaller than Allatel’s galas, you go speak to Alice and ask her if there’s a certain donor that does a lot for the RNIB and is passionate about the cause. I’m going to get in contact with some suppliers of pancuronium bromide, see if there’s been some unusual activity lately.”

“Alright, if that’s what you think is for the best, then sure. I’ll get the girl’s address from the employee records and get in touch if I find anything.” John gave Sherlock a sincere smile and nod, which his friend returned before he strode out of the shop to flag down a passing taxi.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Ethanol. That was what Sherlock could smell on the murder weapon and the victim’s bindings. It was a scent the detective was very familiar with, living with a doctor as he did. A quick browse of the RNIB’s website where they thanked their most generous patrons revealed five doctors in the right areas of London. Pancuronium bromide is often used by anaesthesiologists on patients undergoing surgery, which narrowed the suspect list down to just one.

According to his LinkedIn profile, Dr Li Jie Chen was a veritable pillar of the community, a second generation migrant. Twenty five years of experience at the cutting edge of modern surgery under some of the biggest names in the medical world. Self-evidently not blind but the activity on his profile indicated a dedication to causes that support and help the blind. _‘Close family member must be blind… Child is most likely. A daughter probably.’_

Sherlock was grateful for the darkness as he lurked near Dr Chen’s suburban house; he was trying to think of a believable cover story for knocking on the door at past ten at night. He was sure he could confirm if Chen was their serial killer if he could just get inside and speak to him. An idea finally came to him, he’d pretend he’d been mugged and ask to use his phone. No medical professional he’d ever met had been able to refuse someone who was hurt.

Sliding behind a large tree, Sherlock knelt down to put his phone and wallet in a hollow beneath the roots, he’d retrieve them later on. Sherlock stood back up, taking a moment to psyche himself up before he headbutted the trunk as hard as he could stand. Blinking away stars, he repeated the action once more for good measure before scratching at his own arm for a believable defensive wound.

He made a show of running across the road and up to the house in a panic, furiously pounding on the door with tears in his eyes as he looked around in fear. When the door was pulled open angrily, he launched straight in to his act.

“I-I’m so sorry to bother you, b-but I just got m-mugged! Oh God, they took my wallet and phone, please! You have to help me! I don’t know what to dooo!” Sherlock turned out his pockets and let his voice rise in upset, adding a few quick breaths to simulate hyperventilation. The man gaped at him before his gaze fell on the bleeding scrapes on the detective’s face.

“You’re hurt! Come in, I’ll let you use my phone to call the police and see to those. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.” Chen ushered Sherlock in while he did his best impression of a grateful crime victim. However, he was absorbing all the information available as Dr Chen led him through the house. _‘Widower. Single father. I was right, he has a daughter. Only child who is currently staying with… relatives? Ah, his deceased wife’s family. Makes sense.’_

The doctor sat him down on a stool in the kitchen and excused himself to get the first aid kit and his phone. Sherlock thanked him profusely, the act dropping as soon as he was alone. He began combing the room, looking for anything that would confirm that Chen was their serial killer. 

A six-week-old newspaper that was on the kitchen counter caught his eye, the headline declared ‘Holmes Is Alive!’ with his picture front and centre. Dread filled Sherlock’s stomach and he had just enough time to register someone behind him before his world went black.

When the detective regained consciousness, he hissed in pain as his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Once the wave of agony subsided, he silently assessed his situation without opening his eyes. He was sat on a hard concrete floor while he was tied to a vertical strut of some kind. The room he was in smelt of dust and industrial grade lubricant. He finally cracked his eyes open to confirm that yes, he’d been moved to some kind of abandoned factory.

“Nice of you to join me again, Mr Holmes.” Dr Chen came into Sherlock’s vision from behind, the machine floor was dimly lit with maintenance lights. Even being concussed couldn’t stop the deductions. _‘Sheen of sweat on the forehead; nervous. Brought me to a secluded spot; intends to silence me. Conclusion: Doesn’t really want to kill me but he will.’_ Chen got down on his haunches in front of his captive.

“Your face is way too recognisable nowadays for you to pull off a bluff like that, you have your own doctor to thank for that. You shouldn’t have left him behind, you know. Even if you said you were looking in to me and he comes to my house, he’ll never think to search for you here.” Dr Chen was unarmed from what Sherlock could see, he needed to stall for time to come up with a plan.

“Why didn’t you just kill Arnold Teller and the shop girl, Alice? Why go for Madison and Ms Barrett, Dr Chen?” The detective knew that vigilante types loved the chance to expound on the righteousness of their cause and Chen was no different.

“Because I’ve always tried to do things the right way! Those two weren’t the first people that I’ve caught stealing from those less fortunate than them. I must have reported… God, a dozen or so instances in the past. To the companies, the charities, even the police. And _nothing_ is ever done about it!” The doctor seethed, standing back up and running a hand through his brown hair that was greying noticeably at the temples.

“I submitted a complaint that Arnold Teller had pocketed over three hundred quid at that gala event. When a couple of weeks went by without me hearing anything, I called in a favour. Someone I knew from the IT department in Allatel told me the complaint was deprioritised and then deleted from the system. Someone using Madison Teller’s access codes.” Flecks of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth as he viciously kicked the pole Sherlock was tied to, sending a vibration through him.

“I was so enraged that I made a plan for when Arnold was next away, he’d talked about the tournament at the gala, you see. Then sneak a vial or two from work, knowing it wouldn’t be noticed until the next stock take, if even then. It was ridiculously easy.” Chen seemed to flinch, disturbed by the sneer in his voice. He raised a hand to play with his necklace, a locket that no doubt had a picture of his late wife and young daughter in it.

“I went to speak to Madison; we were having coffee and I gave her one last chance. I informed her that I made the complaint, that I saw her husband slipping notes into his wallet from patrons and she insisted that I was mistaken. So I drugged her, took her to the bed and told her that if she wanted to act blind then I’d make it a reality for her.” Sherlock stared at Chen’s face, it was the face of someone at war with themselves, with what is right and wrong.

“And God help me, it felt good! It didn’t feel like vengeance… it felt like justice.” Dr Chen looked down at his hands in a moment of shame. “It was a high I’d never felt before… and I knew I had to do it again. I’ve been telling Cecilia for years that Alice has been taking donations but she always dismissed me because no stock was missing. She didn’t understand, didn’t _want_ to understand what I was trying to tell her.”

“I was a good man once, Mr Holmes, a good doctor, a good husband… a good father. But I’m starting to believe that being ‘good’ in this world of ours is nothing but stupidity.” Dr Chen looked down at his prisoner again. “I just wanted to make my daughter’s life as easy as possible, that’s all.” Sherlock met Chen’s gaze with a hard look and a huff.

“Nonsense. You feel inadequate because your child’s blindness is incurable, something that chafes against you as both a father and a doctor. So you throw yourself at supporting causes, to feel like you’re doing something useful for her. When you’ve noticed people taking from the charities, it’s almost like a personal attack on you and who you love.” Dr Chen took a step back, as if physically struck by the detective’s words, laying his internal struggles out before him.

“You say it’s about justice but all it’s about is that you love your daughter and feel you’ve failed her.” Sherlock shook his head with a disgusted tut. “And now, not only did she lose her mother, she’ll lose you too. Either to prison or your own conscience, all because you took your self-loathing out on two people who didn’t like acknowledging the truth. Hardly a capital offence, doctor.”

“I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” As soon as the last word passed his lips, the maintenance lighting was switched off, plunging the factory into darkness. Just as quickly the strip of main lights over the pair of them were flipped on, blinding the detective with its brightness.

“I take issue with that last statement!” It was John’s voice, coming out over the tannoy speaker to their immediate left. Sherlock’s mind was flying, how did his friend find him? “See, Mr Chen, my flatmate would tell you that I’m a man full of useless sentiment…” The detective watched as his captor tried desperately to see into the darkness outside the narrow band of light around them.

“You may not know this, but I survived Afghanistan. I’ve been shot, beaten up, kidnapped, stabbed.” John’s voice jumped to another speaker, on the right and behind them now. “Got thrown in the Thames once too… I even survived my best friend’s suicide.” Sherlock flinched a little at that statement as John’s voice was routed from a speaker on the other side of the room.

As Dr Chen whirled in that direction, the detective saw a blur of movement from behind one of the conveyer belts. The former soldier rushed forward and delivered a solid punch into Chen’s solar plexus that knocked all the wind out of him, almost bending him in two. John followed it up with an elbow to his back to force him to the floor.

“And if that isn’t winning at something, then I don’t know what is, quite frankly.” John was breathing a little heavily as he quickly handcuffed their suspect’s hands behind his back. He then used his belt to lash his legs together before pulling a walkie talkie out from his jacket. “Alright, put the main lights on, Greg, I’ve got him.” A moment later and the whole factory floor was lit up.

“Christ, Sherlock, are you ever gonna learn not to go after suspects on your own?” John grumbled as he knelt down and untied his friend before shuffling on his knees so he could check the detective’s head wound. “Damn good job I followed you, got to Chen’s place in time to see him putting you in his car. Tracked him to here then called in Greg to help me. He manned the lights and the tannoy to cover me sneaking up.” The Inspector had just joined them and was currently reading the suspect his rights, giving the detective a cheeky salute.

Sherlock was grateful for the rescue, letting John pull him to his feet. Sherlock was a little unsteady but the doctor put an arm around his waist to support him. Lestrade put Chen in the back of his squad car after telling the other two to report to New Scotland Yard tomorrow for their statements. John was about to call for a taxi when a black sedan pulled up to them.

“Very nice of your brother to arrange a lift home for us.” John commented as he opened the door, letting Sherlock slide in first. On the back seat he found an envelope containing his wallet and phone. Once he’d returned them to his pocket, he turned to watch the city at night, letting his mind wander.

 _‘How did John know to follow me? He must have sensed the danger somehow.’_ Sherlock frowned at that thought, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t realise Chen would recognise him until he saw that newspaper, so there was no way John could have known this trip was anymore risky than any other time they’ve split up on a case. _‘Unless…’_ Sherlock scowled out the passenger window as the obvious conclusion came to him.

When they pulled back up at Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t wait for John. He tore out of the car before it had even really stopped, flying up the stairs into 221b and grabbing his violin to have an atonal chat with it. He heard the doctor come up the stairs and head straight into the kitchen to make tea.

“What on Earth has got you in such a snit? You’ve just solved a case, you know.” John spoke over the notes Sherlock was playing as he brought in two mugs. He placed them on the coffee table, sitting in his chair and picked up his own. Sherlock ignored him, still glaring angrily out the window. Ten minutes later he heard his flatmate’s deep sigh, placing his empty cup down as he stood up.

“Fine, don’t tell me. It’s past midnight, I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Take painkillers if your head is sore. Goodnight.” John stated, getting to the threshold of the door by the time Sherlock decided to speak, his voice even and cold.

“How long have you been following me?” The detective turned in time to see John go rigid at hearing the question. Sherlock could see him internally debate whether to deny it or not before he decided against it.

“Every time you’ve gone off on your own for a case since I moved back in. There’s a tracking device I got from an Army contact; it looks like a business card so I slipped it into your wallet. Normally I’ll just check it to make sure you’re where you say you are before going to do whatever it is that I’m meant to be doing. But if you’ve gone somewhere else, I follow along after in secret.” John moved back over to his chair, sinking down into it.

“So what, do you not trust me or something?” Sherlock spat out venomously, gasping when John actually flinched. “My God, I’m right, aren’t I? You don’t trust me anymore! You said that you’d forgiven me!” Sherlock put his violin away angrily so he could pace the living room like a fuming wild cat.

“I have! I wouldn’t have said that I had forgiven you if I hadn’t!” John was insistent, obviously trying to keep his voice low so they wouldn’t wake up Mrs Hudson with their argument. If the violin hadn’t already done so, that is.

“You can’t have, not if you don’t trust me to go off on my own.” Sherlock’s lip was curled up in a sneer as he practically snarled the words out. His head was pounding; half because of the concussion and half because of the sense of betrayal he was feeling.

“Forgiveness and trust are two separate things, Sherlock! You forgive someone when you aren’t angry with them anymore. Trust isn’t about anger.” John got up from his chair, looking afraid that the detective was going to wake up the whole street with his livid stomping. He grabbed Sherlock by his arms, just above the elbows to stop him.

“Oh really? Care to tell me which insipid emotion is related to trust then, hmm?” Sherlock glared down at the ex-soldier’s face, watching as his friend chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, swallowing before he spoke.

“Fear... When you trust someone, you aren’t scared of what they might do.” John told him quietly, blinking against the sudden tears in the corners of his blue eyes as Sherlock gasped. “When you go off on your own, I’m scared that you are going into dangerous situations without me to watch your back and make sure you get out alive. I’m also terrified that you’re planning to leave me behind again. Either way, I wouldn’t survive your death a second time, that’s a fact.” All of Sherlock’s rage melted away into a knot of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

“John, I’m not going to leave you again, you have to believe me.” The detective stared at his blogger with an earnest gaze, wishing he knew how to erase the doubts from his friend’s mind. He watched as the doctor gave him a small watery smile, letting go of his arms.

“I believe you mean that now. But I also know that if a situation arises where it would be beneficial to fake your death again, then you’ll do it. Don’t even deny it, you’d make the most logical choice because that’s what you do.” John saw the conflict on Sherlock’s face and stepped away from him. “I’m sorry I upset you… I’m gonna head to bed, it’s been a long day.”

“I’ll take you with me!” The words were blurted out as the detective grabbed John’s wrist before he could take a step. “I promise if I have to disappear again, then I’ll take you with me. I’ve broken your trust so many times that I don’t have any right to expect you to give it to me again… but I’m begging you to do so all the same.”

John’s widened eyes felt like they were boring into Sherlock’s skull, not breathing as he searched for something in Sherlock’s face. Then there was a massive exhale of relief and John smiled at him, an exhausted and almost giddy grin that was infectious.

“I will trust you. I’m not sure why, all things considered it seems like a terrible idea. But I will, you brilliant git. You’d better make sure to keep this promise.” John’s stance finally relaxed so Sherlock let go of him. “We should also text each other the address we are investigating when we separate on cases, when we arrive and when we leave.”

“That is a sound plan for the future.” The detective smiled at his friend warmly. “You should get to bed, you’re completely fatigued.” John looked thoughtful for a moment and headed to the kitchen instead. He re-emerged with two glasses and the bottle of whiskey Sherlock had brought with him that first day when he came back.

“I have a better idea. Care to join me?”


	12. Chapter Twelve

John was eating breakfast at the kitchen table when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom. The detective picked up the fresh cup of tea that the doctor had made for him and took a long inhale.

“Are you planning on blogging about the Braille murders? It’s been a few days now, I thought you’d be itching to write up our first really interesting case since I got back.” Sherlock’s voice was gravelly with sleep as he grabbed John’s second slice of toast before he could spread jam on it.

“Between you, the hospital and the Met, I barely have enough time to eat, shower and sleep, never mind blogging or anything else.” John sounded exasperated as he watched Sherlock put an unnecessary amount of honey on his stolen breakfast. “Speaking of which, I need to go change, I’ve got an A&E shift. Don’t call me unless something’s on fire or someone’s dying. Have a good day!” The detective grunted an acknowledgement at him as he left the kitchen.

A little later and John was walking to work, it was a brisk morning and he felt his senses awakening as he watched London coming to life. He loved doing this twenty minute walk to the UCH, it gave him some quiet time that he rarely got at home or work. _‘Wouldn’t change it for anything, but everyone needs some alone time to decompress and recharge.’_ The doctor was just passing Park Square when he felt a sharp scratch to his neck and the sensation that the bottom was falling out of the world beneath him.

John awoke with a jerk, he cursed when the movement pulled his left shoulder. He noted his arms were threaded through the backrest of a plastic and metal chair, his wrists handcuffed together; his ankles were unbound and he realised he was in some sort of cellar when his eyes adjusted to the gloom. John could see a washer/dryer along with a lawn mower and an old bench press, all gathering dust.

The doctor grit his teeth as his head span, swallowing a wave of nausea. He’d been drugged with something that rapidly rendered him unconscious. From his symptoms he figured it was probably an opiate of some sort. The fact he was injected didn’t guarantee the drug was in liquid form as it could have been tablets crushed in saline but it was more likely than not. That narrowed down the options to heroin, cocaine and morphine. John’s guess was the latter, simply because of the lack of a racing heartbeat he’d have expected from the other two.

Liquid morphine was only available outside the traditional clinical settings for palliative care, to ease pain at the end of life. Cancer nurses carried it to administer it as needed, however carers and family members were often taught how to medicate the patients due to a lack of resources to fully cover the demand. John used this information to surmise that he’d been kidnapped by someone who had cared for the terminally ill recently, either professionally or personally.

The former soldier took advantage of the fact his legs hadn’t been bound to stand and investigate a little further. He saw a flight of stairs leading to a door, he imagined it was probably locked, not that he had hands to try the door handle at any rate. There was no natural light so John was trying to be careful in his movements, however as he walked the perimeter of the cellar, a leg of the chair caught on a tarpaulin over some boxes and kicked up a cloud of dust.

John sneezed hard; one, two, three times. Each bodily jerk wrenched his already complaining shoulder. He swore a blue streak and moved into a clear area to sit down again. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he breathed through the pain. He needed to get out of these handcuffs before he did any more damage. The doctor was about to attempt it when he heard a key turning.

The door at the top of the stairs swung open, letting in a bright beam of natural sunlight. Assuming it was still morning, that meant the cellar was connected to a room that faced to the south. A young man came down the steps clutching a polaroid camera, but that wasn’t what caught John’s attention, his captor was wearing a fabric long life carrier bag that he’d butchered into a mask over his head. _‘Dear Lord, I’m at the mercy of a candidate for Britain’s stupidest criminal.’_

“Morning. Thanks for this by the way, I was just thinking it has been a while since I was last kidnapped.” John’s voice was full of snark because he was in pain, pissed off and this guy was beyond ridiculous. “You do realise that you can’t scare Sherlock off a case by taking me, it’ll just make him more determined to catch you.”

“It’s not to scare anyone. I just want money; he’s obviously loaded with the way he talks and dresses and you’re his best mate. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if he doesn’t pay up. Now look at me.” The man said as he raised the camera and John gave him his best ‘the fuck is my life’ face, blinking away the stars from the flash.

“A ransom? Fantastic! Do you have any idea what you are even doing?! You’ll never get away with this, and do you wanna know why?” The doctor fought to keep his volume at an even level. “I’m not the world’s only Consulting Detective but he’s taught me enough that I know you got the morphine you used to drug me from caring for your terminally ill relative who has recently died. My condolences.” The last part wasn’t sarcasm, John was a lot of things and cruel wasn’t one of them.

“But now they’ve passed away, you’re no longer getting Carer’s Allowance for looking after them. Plus any grants you’ve been getting from charities would have stopped too, I’d imagine. So instead of looking for an honest job, you’ve come up with a frankly ludicrous scheme to extort people for money by kidnapping their loved ones and storing them in the cellar of your own house, you idiotic prat!” John was watching as the man tensed up incrementally with every word he said.

“And if that’s what someone like me can work out, just imagine the things that Sherlock will know about you. I do sincerely hope you didn’t ‘help’ your relative along in the expectation of some sort of inheritance, he loves putting those kinds of people away.” John made a calculated push of the man’s buttons and wasn’t disappointed when he lunged towards him.

John snapped up, wrapping his legs tightly around the man’s body, pinning his arms to his sides. He threw himself forward with all his weight, knocking the kidnapper to the floor so he was kneeling astride his abdomen. A well placed headbutt put the criminal out cold. The doctor only allowed himself a moment of pride before he dislocated the thumb on his right hand so he could slip out of the handcuffs, the bone was back in place in seconds.

“Next time, don’t kidnap someone with military experience, moron.” John muttered to the man as he put him in the recovery position before tying his wrists and ankles together with some storage cords he found. The doctor stood up carefully, but thankfully the dizziness and nausea he’d been expecting didn’t materialise. He padded up the stairs and found himself in a kitchen.

John spotted his phone switched off on the dining table and put it in his pocket as he carefully made his way through the house. His left shoulder was screaming at him, he needed to take something for it but that was going to have to wait until he got home. 

John found the front door and opened it up but as soon as he set one foot outside, he was grabbed and thrown up against the brickwork. A forearm was pressed hard against his throat, the cold muzzle of a gun against his temple and angry grey eyes staring at him.

“Don’t move, yo- John? John! Thank God, it’s you!” Sherlock immediately let go of the stunned doctor as he hastily repocketed the firearm. “Your supervisor called me because you didn’t show up to work. I spoke to Mycroft and he checked the CCTV for me. He saw you being taken and tracked you to this house. I came to rescue you… but apparently you had it all in hand.” Those deducing eyes were combing all over his friend, telling the story of his brief captivity.

“Only because I was kidnapped by the criminal equivalent of a coral polyp. I used your trick of deducing him till he attacked me then overpowered him. He’s tied up in the cellar ready for the police.” John spotted a sign with the street name on it, pulling his phone out to send a message to Lestrade informing him of the address and a criminal he needed to arrest when he got the chance.

“You’ve hurt your shoulder.” Sherlock stated with a concerned frown on his face. John was doing his best not to move it, even using his right hand to text for once. “Should we go to the hospital?”

“There’s no point, there’s nothing to fix. I just need painkillers and rest and I can do that at home. See if you can get us a taxi or something. I’ll need to call the UCH and let them know I won’t be in.” John grimaced against a wave of painful spasms, holding his breath initially until he realised what he was doing and forced himself to breathe.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll sort it. You just focus on you.” Sherlock told him, using his tall person magic to seemingly summon a cab from nowhere. He held the door open for John who climbed in carefully and sank into the faux leather seating, directing the driver to Baker Street. “I hope you paid him back for all the pain you’re in.”

“He’s gonna have one hell of a headache, that’s for sure. I also left his pathetic improvised mask on in the hopes that Greg will take pictures that end up on the Met’s Twitter feed.” John checked his watch. “Depending on whether the morphine he dosed me with is extended release or not is going to affect what painkillers I can take and when.” Sherlock glowered and tightened his coat around himself grumbling something about how _he_ was the only person allowed to drug John.

They got back to their flat, John feeling every single one of the seventeen steps on their stairs go through him like a lightning strike. Sherlock hovered protectively, managing to distract Mrs Hudson by asking for some tea and snacks in half an hour. She groused about the fact she wasn’t their housekeeper but everyone knew there’d be a tray ready on time.

“I’m going to have a hot shower and then put some of my lidocaine plasters on, you said you’d call work for me?” John asked his flatmate who nodded at him. “I’ll leave my phone with you, if Lestrade rings then tell him what happened with the idiot kidnapper so he can press charges.” The doctor walked into the bathroom before he realised he didn’t have any clothes to change into and he really didn’t want to go up another flight of stairs to his room.

 _‘I’ll just wear my uniform until I feel fit enough to move again.’_ John thought to himself as he turned on the shower to let the water warm up before stripping and stepping into the stream. He made a noise that was part painful groan, part relieved moan when the heat hit his shoulder, the damaged nerves making his left hand spasm again so he stayed still for a moment to let it settle down. After a few minutes he heard a gentle knock on the door.

“John? I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you some clothes and your dressing gown. They are just outside the door, let me know if you require my assistance with placing your plasters.” Sherlock’s voice floated through and John couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“Thanks, mate, that’s brilliant, I really appreciate it.” John called back, hearing the detective’s footsteps as he walked away. After about ten minutes, John decided his shoulder was as warmed through as it was going to get so he switched off the shower and stepped out. He put a towel around his waist and slid the door open marginally to grab his clothes.

It looked like Sherlock had assumed _‘Correctly’_ that John wouldn’t be able to lift his arm to put on a t-shirt and buttons would also be a problem, so he’d just brought him some pyjama bottoms, thick socks and the gown. The doctor dried himself and stood in front of the mirror as he opened a fresh box of lidocaine plasters. He ended up placing four in several different areas, normally he could get away with only one or two.

After he was done, he got dressed and pulled on the dressing gown, padding into the living room to find Sherlock stoking the fire with a poker. John sank down into his chair, finding tea and some scones within easy reach along with the newspapers. The detective straightened up once the fire met his approval, striding across the room to pick up his violin.

“Fancy a little Brahms? Or Mendelsohn perhaps?” Sherlock asked, knowing they were two of John’s favourite composers. John smiled at him as he picked up his mug and settled back in his chair.

“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you… Oh, and Sherlock?” John waited until he had Sherlock’s attention before continuing. “You’re a good friend, the best in fact.” The pink flush that leapt across that normally stoic face was frankly adorable. John hid his smile in his cup as Sherlock snapped out of his shock and wordlessly raised his violin to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---EASTER EGG---  
> Greg Lestrade kicked in the door of the address that John had sent him earlier, realising only after the fact that it had been left unlocked. He had a couple of uniformed officers with him and they swept the house, looking for the cellar. They found a man tied up on the floor of the basement. They sniggered when they saw the improvised headgear. Lestrade got the man into handcuffs and pulled him to his feet, starting to read him his rights.
> 
> “Mr- ahem! You are under arrest for…” He frowned, realising that he should have asked for more details. “…for doing something illegal to John Watson. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence…” He continued as they led the suspect out of the house, definitely one of his less conventional arrests, that’s for sure.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Blood

The next afternoon, Sherlock was in the kitchen doing an experiment when his phone buzzed with a message from John, his flatmate had been called in by the Met for Medical Examiner duties. As the body was of an elderly lady in a care home, the likelihood of it being anything interesting was virtually nil so the detective had opted to stay behind rather than tag along.

:: Just got out of NSY, heading Tesco if you want anything? – JW ::

:: Magnesium silicate. Ascorbic acid. Potassium bitartrate. – SH ::

:: So, talcum powder, vitamin C and cream of tartar then? I’m not even going to ask why; I’ll be back soon. – JW ::

Sherlock went back to what he was working on, looking at a slide in his microscope and taking notes with his hand as he went. He didn’t glance up again until he heard footsteps on the stairs, that’s when he realised that a whole hour had passed him by. John didn’t greet him as he came into the kitchen, instead he went straight for the sink, filling a small glass with water and taking a long swig.

“You’re emptyhanded.” Sherlock swivelled on the stool he was using so he faced the doctor. “Where’s the shopping? You didn’t forget or you’d have been back sooner. Did you get into another fight with a chip and pin machine? Really, John, it’s not like you need a degree in computer science to operate one, even an idio-” 

The glass in the former soldier’s hand suddenly cracked and then shattered, the shards falling noisily into the sink as blood began to drip from John’s clenched fist. Before Sherlock could even speak, the doctor wrapped his hand in a tea towel and stalked into the bathroom without making a sound. The detective stared after him in complete bewilderment before sliding off the stool, moving to stand in the threshold.

John was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, their first aid kit balanced on his knee as he dug around for some tweezers. The blood was already seeping through the towel in places, he unwrapped his hand to expose the lacerations on his palm and fingers, examining them for any splinters of glass.

Sherlock wasn’t sure about what to do, as it was John seemed to be pretending that he wasn’t there. The detective chewed his lip as he tried to work out what was wrong. _‘Intended to go shopping but came home without it: didn’t go to the supermarket? Why not? However, it took him over an hour to get home, where did he go? His eyes are red but his cheeks aren’t wet: holding back tears. Hasn’t said a word: Too upset to speak.’_ Sherlock could probably work it out, given a few more minutes but he decided to go for the direct approach.

“What on Earth happened between you texting me and now?” Sherlock asked, watching as John froze for a moment from where he was trying to catch the end of a shard of glass with the tweezers but he was still bleeding making it a very difficult job. Sherlock got down on his knees by the doctor and pulled some rubber tubing out of the first aid kit, tying it tightly around his friend’s wrist as a temporary tourniquet to stem the blood flow. “Give me the tweezers, I’ll do it.”

John handed them over without a fuss, Sherlock ran John’s hand under the cold tap briefly, hoping to irrigate the wounds and reduce some of the pain at the same time. The detective was using a clean flannel to dab it dry when his friend was finally ready to speak.

“Harry called me as I was heading to Tesco. I ignored it, but she left me a voicemail.” John lent back against the cistern, staring up at the ceiling while Sherlock carefully dug all the remaining splinters of glass out of his palm. John pulled his phone out with his free hand, calling his voicemail and putting it on speakerphone. 

“Johnny, I’m not ringing for money or anything so don’t just delete this like you always do. I have some bad ne- well, some news then. Dad’s died. Not sure what of but I found out through an old friend that still lives in our hometown. Thought I’d warn you so you can at least feign grief if someone else tells you, I’m just hoping my non-reaction will be written off as shock. Text me, alright? Take care of yourself because -”

“-no one else is going to.” John mumbled the end of the phrase along with the recording. Meanwhile Sherlock had cleaned up the doctor’s injured hand with antiseptic, closed the biggest cuts with butterfly strips before putting plasters on the others that warranted it. He wrapped a short length of bandages around his flatmate’s palm to protect it even further.

“How are you feeling right now?” The detective asked as he untied the rubber tubing, watching as John flexed his hand experimentally to restore blood flow, test how it felt and his range of motion. He gave an incredulous little laugh at the question.

“I honestly don’t think there’s a word to describe how I’m feeling right now.” John replied as he allowed Sherlock to tug on his arm to get him to stand, leading him into the kitchen, sitting him on a stool while he went to prepare some tea.

“No one said you have to have a one-word answer. Use as many words as is needed.” Sherlock dug through the cupboards while the kettle was boiling and found some biscuits, putting them in front of the doctor.

“When I first listened to the voicemail, my reaction was pretty similar to Harry’s – a non-reaction. Like when someone tells you something random that has nothing to do with you or what you’re doing.” John lifted the mug that Sherlock put in front of him, blowing on it and taking a sip then he grimaced. “Ugh! I don’t take sugar, you know that.”

“Shock and blood loss, you need it and eat these too.” The detective nudged the packet of biscuits closer to his flatmate. He grabbed his own cup and sat down next to the doctor, giving him his undivided attention, he hadn’t seen him this upset since he came back to life.

“There wasn’t any shock, it was like my brain went ‘Oh right, ok then.’ I sent Harry a text, put my phone in my pocket and started walking to Tesco’s again when it hit me.” Despite the bandages, John gripped his mug tightly with both hands as he turned his face away from his friend, he was flushed. _‘In shame? What? Why?’_

“You know what I’m like, Sherlock, I bow my head in respect for every dead body I examine. They are strangers to me but I’m always aware that they were a living breathing being until recently. I wouldn’t call it grief, that’s too strong a word for why I do it, but I’m definitely moved by the finality of death…” John’s respiratory rate increased, indicating his distress. “… except when it comes to my own father apparently. I’m not bereaved. I’m not sad. I’m not even moved! What the hell is wrong with me?!”

John let go of his mug, leaving it on the table as he turned his whole body away from his flatmate. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with supressed emotion. Sherlock was on his feet before he even realised it, gripping the former soldier’s upper arms with both his hands, speaking to him in an urgent tone.

“Now you listen to me, John Watson, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, you hear me? You are moved by the deaths of strangers because, in your eyes, everyone on this planet is worthy of your respect until they give you a reason to believe otherwise.” The detective watched as his friend lifted his head slowly as he continued to speak. 

“You gave your parents numerous chances to regain your respect, more than they deserved considering how deeply they hurt you. Is it any surprise that you and your sister cannot bring yourselves to care about the death of a man who never wanted to be a part of your lives? Not to me, it’s not. You’re the one who said that blood doesn’t have to mean anything.” Sherlock saw John close his eyes and take a deep breath with a long, slow exhale. When he opened them again, those blue eyes seemed clearer.

“You’re right. I can’t force myself to feel something I don’t and it’s not as if I don’t have a reason for being the way I am, I shouldn’t berate myself for it.” The doctor gave Sherlock a small smile which was returned with a larger one. “I’m sorry about the shopping and the glass.” Sherlock waved him off with a dismissive hand.

“Unimportant! Don’t worry about it, though we should order in if we want something for dinner tonight. Thai?” He asked, pulling out his phone already to dial as John gave him an agreeing nod.

Later that night found Sherlock lying on the couch in his thinking pose, he was mulling over one of his favourite topics: the fascinating entity that is Doctor John Watson. ‘Take care of yourself because no one else is going to.’ With the knowledge the detective now had about the way his blogger was brought up, the fact he lived by that statement was more than understandable.

Nowadays John was generally a lot better at accepting help from his flatmate (and a select couple of others too) but it wasn’t always that way. In the first year of their association, he would stubbornly insist he could take care of anything and everything himself, even when the opposite was readily apparent.

_The pair of them got back to Baker Street after the successful conclusion of a case involving counterfeit banknotes. Sherlock had managed to pinpoint the gang’s hideout where they were running their presses from a footprint and a cigarette stub. They joined in on the raid ordered by DI Dimmock because there were too many gangsters for just the two of them to take down._

_However, there was still a scuffle, John had been swiped by a box cutter on the back of his right shoulder blade while he was trying to subdue another guy twice his size. Seeing as it was more of a slash wound than a stab wound, the doctor decided he could treat it back at home, he had sutures, needles and everything else he needed in his kit._

_“Take your shirt off and let me help stitch that up for you.” Sherlock gestured towards John, the back of his button down shirt almost completely dyed red. John shook his head as he grabbed what he needed and headed for the bathroom._

_“No need, I can handle it. You order something for us to eat, you’ve barely eaten in three days.” The detective frowned, failing to see how anyone could stitch up the back of their own shoulder but he obediently rang one of their favourite takeaways and placed an order. When John hadn’t emerged ten minutes later, Sherlock decided to invade the bathroom._

_He found the doctor shirtless and standing with his back to the bathroom mirror, trying to contort himself enough to reach the wound but failing miserably._

_“For God’s sake! Let me do it before you dislocate something. It could have been done by now if you hadn’t been so stubborn about it!” Sherlock took the needle out of John’s hand, indicating to him that he should turn around._

_“No, it’s fine! I can do it!” John insisted, stretching to try and retrieve the needle from Sherlock, wincing as he did so._

_“Clearly, that’s why you’ve been standing here for ten minutes admiring your own blood as it runs down your back. Now turn around.” Sherlock ordered him, sighing with exasperation when John refused. “Just turn around! I am well aware that you are used to looking after yourself but insisting on doing so when someone is willing to help is just inefficient and illogical… even more so when it’s something that you can’t actually treat yourself.”_

_John’s protests died on his lips and he wordlessly turned his back to his friend. The detective had the wound disinfected and stitched in next to no time. He even picked up a cloth and washed the drying blood off of his back with a gentle hand._

_“Uh… thanks, Sherlock. I… um I really appreciate your help.” John was flushing with embarrassment when he turned back around. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to relying on other people… not used to having people I_ can _rely on, if I’m honest.” At that moment the doorbell had rung for their food before they could speak of it any more._

As Sherlock finished reviewing that particular memory he was struck with a realisation. While John may have got better at trusting people to take care of him physically when he needed it, that didn’t apply to emotional injuries. The doctor _always_ fought hard to retain control of his feelings, often removing himself from an upsetting conversation rather than let someone see him when he was feeling weak. _‘In fact, I’ve only ever seen him cry twice and he thought he was alone for one of those.’_

Sherlock glanced up sharply at the sound of a half-strangled shriek followed by a thump, it sounded like John had had a nightmare. The bump was the ex-soldier sliding out of his bed to sit on the floor, something he tended to do after his night terrors. Then the detective heard another quiet noise. _‘That sounds like the drawer of John’s nightstand. Why would he be going in there? The only thing he keeps in there is his gu-’_

It took 1.5 seconds longer than it should have done for his mind to come back online after that thought stalled his brain. Sherlock ran silently up the stairs, not wanting to startle John if at all possible. When he reached the bedroom, he gripped the handle and turned it slowly, pushing the door open.

John was sitting on the floor, leaning with his back against the side of the bed. The light vest and bed shorts he was wearing were both drenched in sweat. He had his feet on the floor with his legs bent, his forearms resting on his knees… and in his left hand was his Browning L9A1 UK military issue handgun. Sherlock’s heart froze solid and his train of thoughts derailed again.

“Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.” The doctor had spotted him and tilted the gun to show that the slot for the magazine was empty, the detective let out a breath of relief.

“Why are you holding it then?” He asked as he took a step into the room, closing the door behind him silently. The sense of disquiet he was feeling had yet to be comforted. John gave a small huff.

“That… is a very good question.” John’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible. As Sherlock crept a step closer, he noticed the moonlight reflecting off dried salt on John’s face. He’d been crying in his sleep, his subconscious feeding on the upset of the day.

“Yes, I thought so.” Sherlock didn’t want to loom over his friend so he sank to the floor in front of him, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. He willed his fingers to stop twitching with the urge to remove the gun from John’s grasp.

“You remember you told me about times when it feels like you have a million different thoughts in your head all at once? You can’t think straight because it’s just too noisy in there?” His flatmate glanced up at the detective who nodded. “Well I feel like that too sometimes. When it’s too quiet outside my head and too loud inside it… I get overwhelmed.”

“When that happens, I hold my gun… because when I have a gun in my hand, I need to be focused. I need to know that the person I’m pointing it at is the right person. I need to be able to hear what my instincts are telling me. Otherwise I could move too slowly, miss a shot and you or someone else could be hurt. Using a gun is about discipline, if you can’t summon that discipline at will then you have no business even touching a firearm.” John was staring at the gun, staring through it, remembering faraway deserts under a blazing sun.

“It grounds you; I can understand that.” Sherlock replied with a nod, he hesitated before he continued speaking. “I know I’m not the best person when it comes to emotions but I want you to know that if you’re ever feeling overwhelmed, John, that I _will_ listen to you. I may not understand everything you tell me but I would never turn you away or belittle your struggles.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer, thank you, but I can handle it.” There was that phrase again. ‘I can handle it.’ Sherlock was beginning to hate those words, John shouldn’t have to ‘handle’ anything, especially not alone. John deserved to be happy and _thrive_.

“I am well aware that you are used to looking after yourself but insisting on doing so when someone is willing to help is just inefficient and illogical.” Those words worked then; Sherlock could only hope they would have the same effect now. “Also, I would consider it the greatest honour if you would trust me with your tears like you do your life.” John’s head whipped up; he’d obviously never expected the detective to say anything like that to him.

“I do trust you, I just never wanted you to see me when I’m being so…” _‘weak.’_ Sherlock’s mind finished John’s sentence for him. The detective leaned forward, placing his hand over John’s, the one that wasn’t holding the gun. He squeezed it, trying to convey to him that Sherlock didn’t think feeling overwhelmed was being pathetic, that he’d never think that of him.

They sat like that for some minutes before John carefully put his gun down on the floor next to him, he shifted his legs so he was sitting cross legged and hugged himself tightly around his torso with both arms. Sherlock saw his friend take one shuddering inhale, holding it until the exact moment when John finally let go. Tears welled up in blue eyes and he let them spill out uncensored, tracing his cheeks until they dripped on to his bare forearms.

Sherlock shuffled so he was sitting beside his friend, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him to lean against his chest. It seemed that John didn’t want him to say anything, he just needed his presence. That, Sherlock could do. If John Watson needed him there, there he would be.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

A few days later found John and Sherlock at a press conference. There had been a high profile theft from the British Museum, a sculpture of a golden horse and chariot had gone missing – it was part of the Oxus Treasures. A beautiful Persian piece dating from the fourth or fifth century BC and crafted out of Achaemenid gold.

It had had the potential to be an interesting case but it turned out to have been a simple crime of opportunity. A security guard took advantage of a random power cut and stole the sculpture with the intention of melting it down to take advantage of the high price of gold. 

John knew that Sherlock had been lured into looking at this case by the possibility of the electricity outage being part of some elaborate scheme. He had been disappointed at the lack of an exciting resolution to the theft but the British Museum were very grateful at any rate. 

“So, thanks to the efforts of one man, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, this historic treasure has been restored to us once more.” The curator handed the detective a present and posed for the photographers to take their shots. John was looking forward to the conference wrapping up and getting some lunch somewhere when Sherlock suddenly spoke up.

“Actually, before you all go, there is something I’d like to say.” John felt a wave of horror go through him, his flatmate speaking in public very rarely went over well. He could see a few journalists metaphorically rubbing their hands together in glee at this development. 

“Can anyone in here count?” Sherlock looked around the room, getting nothing but vacant and confused stares back. “The reason that I ask is because despite the curator’s statement that this case was solved due ‘to the efforts of one man’, there is actually two men before you.” John blinked in bemusement as the detective turned and motioned to him.

“Dr Watson is an indispensable part of what I do, so it would be rather nice if the press and the media didn’t refer to him as an afterthought all the time. My success rates would invariably be lower without him, if only for the simple reason he saves my life on a regular basis so I can keep on solving crimes.” John bit the inside of his cheek in the hopes of preventing a blush from flooding his face, he wasn’t used to being the centre of attention like this.

“That’s not the only reason I consider him to be my much valued partner, but what I’ve said is sufficient enough to make my point. These cases have been resolved due to our shared efforts; I shall expect this to be recognised fairly going forward. Thank you for your time.” Sherlock spun on his heels and left the briefing room, John had to jog to catch up with him.

“What was all that about?” The doctor asked in confusion once he was back alongside the detective. He could still feel that his cheeks were a little warm. He spotted a café and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arm with one hand and pointed with the other. “Let’s go there, I’m starving!”

“I just got sick of them always implying that you’re some sort of ‘hanger on’ when really you’re a vital part of proceedings.” Sherlock replied as they took a seat each inside the little café. John grabbed a menu and smiled at his friend.

“Well it was very kind of you to say, but you know I don’t mind being in the background. I don’t do what I do for recognition, the press giving you all the credit doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” John scanned his eyes down the dishes and gave his order to the waitress when she arrived. 

“And anyway, apart from my medical expertise and the odd things like me knowing Braille, I don’t contribute much to the thought process of working out the case. I just bring the muscle.” If they’d been at home, he would have flexed his biceps to illustrate this, but he wasn’t about to do it in the middle of a crowded cafe.

“On the contrary, John, I’ve been assessing my performances and I’ve found evidence to suggest that I solve cases an average of 37% faster if you’ve accompanied me on them.” Sherlock had ordered himself a sandwich, probably more to appease John than him actually being hungry. “This trend holds true both before and after my absence… and it’s not just because I can use you as a sounding board either, your presence seems to focus me.”

“Wow, really? That’s… um, nice… to know, I guess?” John fumbled a little, unsure about how to react to such praise. _‘I wonder if he’s just buttering me up because he wants me to give up one of my other jobs so I have more time for The Work?’_ But that thought felt wrong immediately, he sensed nothing but sincerity in Sherlock’s words.

“Yes, well, the only thing I regret about my impromptu press statement is it’s likely to fuel the rumours again. It doesn’t bother me any but you’re going to have to start insisting you’re straight again like you always did before.” The detective stated as the waitress came back with their plates, placing the food down in front of them before retreating.

“That’s… not what I always used to say.” John had picked up his cutlery, staring down at his pie and chips but not eating yet. The doctor could almost feel Sherlock’s eyes on him but he refused to look up just yet.

“…Yes, you did, you were always going on about how you’re ‘not gay’ whenever anyone implied that there was something more than platonic friendship between us.” The detective’s baritone held a note of curiosity, he’d evidently registered John’s odd behaviour but didn’t yet understand the reason for it.

“Exactly, I always said that I was not gay, and I’m not.” John constantly strived to be as honest as possible and for him, sometimes that meant answering questions in such a way that while true, it wasn’t the whole truth. He looked up to see that Sherlock had abandoned any pretence of eating his sandwich and instead was staring at him with his fingers steepled together.

“But you never said that you were straight, hmm? …because you’re not strai-” A light of understanding went on in those grey eyes. “Of course, you’re bisexual. How did I miss that? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Sherlock lent forward as John finally started eating his food.

“Because it never came up. You and everyone else in the world was happy to assume that ‘I’m not gay’ meant ‘I’m straight’ and I never felt the need to correct you.” The doctor’s answer didn’t seem to satisfy the detective, judging by the way his bottom lip was jutting out.

“But I’m not the rest of the world, John! I’m your best friend so I would have thought you’d tell me something important like that!” Sherlock emptied four sachets of sugar in his tea, stirring it violently before he picked it up so he could make a show of drinking it angrily.

“Come off it! We both know that if I’d spent the first few weeks of us living together telling you all the inane unimportant details about me and my life then you’d have driven me out in a month.” John answered him calmly, picking up his own drink and taking a sip. “By the time our friendship had solidified, I still felt no need to inform you about my sexuality because I knew it wouldn’t make any difference to how you felt about me.”

Sherlock didn’t answer him but was evidently in full sulk mode. _‘How to win an argument with consulting detectives; use logic and watch them internally implode from the paradoxical urge to argue back.’_ John went back to his food, leaving the man-child to his temper tantrum.

“How many men have you been with then?” That question made John look up sharply, he narrowed his eyes as he met Sherlock’s gaze unflinchingly. He let the silence stretch out between them until it became uncomfortable.

“Not only is that not a question that it’s appropriate to ask in public, it is also none of your business. Out of respect for you, I’ve never interrogated you about your past sexual history, I’d appreciate it if you could do the same for me.” John was using his Captain’s voice; it was so effective because it was seldom deployed. A fact not lost on Sherlock, judging by his slightly chastened expression.

The detective was quiet, introspective and well behaved for the remainder of the time it took John to finish his meal, seeming to realise that he’d overstepped an unspoken boundary. It reminded the doctor that even though his friend was much better at navigating social interactions and people, at times he still needed a gentle ‘bit not good’ to nudge him back on track. Or occasionally a slightly stronger reprimand as in this case.

“Come on, let me wrap that up for you so you can eat it at home.” John grabbed Sherlock’s sandwich and folded a couple of serviettes around it while the detective settled the bill. The pair of them jumped in a cab back to Baker Street, heading up into their flat. “So, do you want me to look through the papers to see if there’s anything interesting or do you want the afternoon off now?”

“I’ve just realised something. You’ve not had a single date since I came back.” Sherlock had ignored the question and was standing in the middle of the living room looking at John like he was a very interesting puzzle to solve, revealing the line his thoughts had been taking since their conversation over lunch. The former soldier sighed as he walked into the kitchen to put the detective’s sandwich away.

“I’ve not had a date since before you jumped, you prat, I’m just surprised it’s taken you this long to notice.” John walked back into the sitting room and sank down on his chair; he could almost hear Sherlock’s mind whirring. “I’ll save you the deductions as to why. First off, I was grieving for you and wrapped up in clearing your name, so I was in no fit state to be thinking about dating.”

“Then I was getting back into the world of work with the UCH and then the Met, my attention was on doing a good job rather than looking for potential partners. Now, as I’ve said before, I don’t have time to date. Any free time I do get I’d rather use it to relax than going on the pull.” The doctor hoped that had satisfied his flatmate’s insatiable curiosity. 

“But don’t you miss it? Not just the dates, I mean, but the affection, the intimacy and the physical side of things?” Sherlock moved and sat down in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, still studying John with his deep grey eyes.

“Not particularly, not sure why you’re so concerned though, sometimes it seemed you did pretty much everything in your power to sabotage my love life.” John was half-amused and half-annoyed by this conversation and if pressed, he couldn’t honestly say which feeling was stronger right now.

“That’s only because none of those women you dated were good enough for you, with the exception of Sarah, she had potential.” Sherlock’s tone was full of contempt as he waved his hand dismissively. John smirked a little bit before his phone rang, he dug it out of his pocket and frowned at the caller ID, _‘Harry’_ and silenced the ringer.

“While I can appreciate looking out for a mate and making sure he didn’t sell himself short, it wasn’t up to you who I did or did not date. Speaking of Sarah, she’s married now actually, think the guy is an accountant. Funnily enough, the man who almost got her killed didn’t get an invite to the wedding.” The doctor gave an over-exaggerated shrug, making the detective smile.

“Some people are just too sensitive these days.” Sherlock replied dryly as John’s phone rang again, he sighed deeply and answered it this time.

“What’s up?” John listened for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “…Harry, it’s not even three o’clock in the afternoon and you’re already in this state… alright, fine, I’ll come and get you. Where are you? …Ok, stay there.” John hung up with a weary groan as he got to his feet.

“I’ve got to go, text me if you need anything while I’m out and eat that sandwich before it goes stale and I’ll be back in a bit.” John checked to make sure he had his wallet with him, he’d need enough to get to the bar that his sister was currently holed up in, then to get her back to her flat safely and then finally to get himself back to Baker Street.

“Why do you always go when she calls you to help her get home? It’s not like she’s ever grateful, in fact she usually begs you for money and then curses you out when you won’t give it to her.” Sherlock asked him in an honestly puzzled tone, this was one of the things that he had real trouble understanding. John still remembered the look on the detective’s face the time when Harry had given him a black eye for his trouble.

“Believe it or not, I don’t do it for her. I worry that the one time I say to her ‘No, make your own way home.’ will be the time she’s found in some back alley, beaten within an inch of her life or worse. I wouldn’t be able to live with that guilt. I don’t mind if I never get any thanks for it, seeing as neither one of us ever acts out of pure sibling love for each other anyway, we both have our own selfish reasons for what we do.” John replied with a helpless little shrug as he turned to head for the door.

“John, only you would call running to the rescue every time an act of selfishness.” Sherlock’s words only half registered with him as they followed him down the stairs.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning:  
> Descriptions of gore/blood.  
> Discussions of sexual abuse/grooming.

Sherlock got out of the taxi in one of the less privileged areas of London. Lestrade had called him about a murder in a small hotel, the type of establishment that rented its rooms out by the hour. John stepped out beside him after paying the driver.

“Bit grim, isn’t it?” The doctor commented, and he wasn’t wrong. Several of the windows were boarded up, there were bins in the alley that were overflowing with rubbish, attracting flies and other vermin. “Did Greg say why he thought this case was something of interest to you?”

“Yes, he said that if one looked at the bedroom and the bathroom then you would think they were from two completely separate crime scenes. It was enough to make me curious so I thought it was worth a look.” Sherlock replied as they headed into the building together, they found the Inspector waiting for them in the lobby by the reception desk.

“Ah, there you are. Not got much information to go on really. The body is a man, approximate age late forties to early fifties. Unknown name as I doubt Daniel Craig is so down on his luck as to need a hook up in this part of the city.” Lestrade led the pair of them through a corridor, it looked like the room in question was on the ground floor.

“You never know, Detective Inspector, Mr Craig might have decided that his ‘World is Not Enough.’” Sherlock nearly ran into Greg’s back when the latter stopped in shock at Sherlock making a pop culture joke. “… John makes me watch Bond movies every chance he gets.”

“Not that ‘The World is Not Enough’ was one of Daniel Craig’s, mind.” John chimed in with a grin as the trio came to room number 4. The door was closed over and Lestrade pushed it gently. Sherlock heard the doctor gasp before he murmured breathlessly. “That… is an awful lot of blood.”

The room wasn’t very big, barely big enough for the double bed sitting in the centre of it. They were staring at the scene of a very frenzied attack, the man lying in the middle of the bed had been stabbed upwards of twenty times. There was blood spattered and sprayed on the headboard, the walls and the ceiling, as well as the copious pool surrounding the body itself.

“None of the staff could remember who came to meet this guy, didn’t hear anything unusual and CCTV isn’t good for business in a place like this.” Greg scratched the back of his neck in puzzlement as Sherlock moved to the head of the bed, John walked around the other side. The detective took out his pocket magnifier as he leaned down to examine the man’s face

“His lips are swollen, interesting... John, wha-” Sherlock glanced over and stopped short. His friend and colleague had gone as white as a sheet, a sheen of sweat breaking out over his forehead. “John, you’ve ceased breathing. What on Earth is wrong?” The doctor snapped out of his trance and reeled backwards away from the bed until he hit the wall.

“I- He- That- ” John couldn’t get his words out, he looked down at his shaking hands and clenched them into fists, taking a deep breath. “I know him. He was one of my instructors at Sandhurst when I did basic training after I enlisted. Harvey Callahan. He is a Lieutenant… or he was when I shipped out, at least.” Greg was writing all this down while giving his friend a concerned look.

“Sherlock, I- I can’t do this one with you. It’s too close, too personal, I won’t be able to be objective for you.” John had turned away from the bed so he didn’t have to look at the body. It was the first time the detective had seen his blogger physically recoiling from a corpse. _‘If it’s someone he knows then shouldn’t that make him keener to work the case, not less?’_ But before Sherlock could put a voice to that thought, Lestrade put his notebook away and put a hand on John’s shoulder. 

“Let me get you out of here then, Doc, I just need to ask you a bit more about how you know him and when you last saw him, alright?” Greg led the shell-shocked man out through the door and back down the hall. Sherlock looked after them for a moment, feeling a vague sense of disquiet for a reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

At a loss of what else to do, Sherlock decided to check out the bathroom attached to the room. He stopped in the doorway as he took in the surroundings. The killer had obviously cleaned themself up before they left the crime scene. What was notable about this was the difference in atmosphere from the bedroom.

There was a pile of discarded clothes sitting in the bottom of the shower stall, the perpetrator had taken a shower and changed into another outfit that they had brought along with them. Sherlock could smell strong bleach in the air, it was almost as overpowering as the scent of blood was in the other room. _‘Judging from the way the colour is beginning to leech out of those clothes, our killer soaked them in bleach to destroy any DNA evidence.’_

The murder weapon was sitting in the sink, it had been scrubbed clean to remove any trace of fingerprints. The detective noted that the knife was a cheap steak knife, one that could be bought from any high street retailer. The tip of it was broken off, no doubt lodged somewhere in Mr Callahan’s body for the time being.

“Right, I’m back. I put John in a cab home to Baker Street, this guy was his rugby trainer apparently and hasn’t seen him since before he went to Afghanistan so I didn’t see a reason to keep him here any longer.” Lestrade appeared behind Sherlock. “What do you think?”

“I think that this man, Harvey Callahan, obviously had a profound impact on John’s life if he was able to recognise him instantly after all these years, especially considering the unnatural expression on the face of the deceased.” Sherlock replied as he turned back to the DI, who blinked at him.

“The case, Sherlock, I meant what do you think about the case?” Greg’s tone was exasperated but he was grinning cheekily at Sherlock, the way he usually did when Sherlock had either done something very silly or let slip that he was actually a caring person on the inside.

“O-oh, I see. Apologies.” The detective cleared his throat and looked away from Lestrade. “It _is_ intriguing. You look at the bedroom and see, what? A hotblooded crime of passion, perhaps? Then look at the bathroom and see a premeditated and meticulously planned murder by someone who has no intention of being caught easily.”

“My instinct says revenge for some sort of deep personal injury, but to know what that could be, then we need to know the victim. Find Callahan’s address and get me in there. Have forensics test everything in the bathroom, there’s an outside chance the killer missed some trace evidence during the clean up but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.” Sherlock walked back towards the bed and folded his arms as he studied the corpse.

“There’s too much blood to really get much information from the body. The wounds are concentrated around the chest, chances are the lungs were punctured very quickly which would have prevented Callahan from screaming for help. Molly should be able to tell us just how many of these were actually inflicted post-mortem.” The detective frowned as he carefully turned over one of the victim’s hands, checking for defensive wounds.

“I’d say that it’s highly likely that Callahan knew his killer. They’d arranged to meet here for a sexual liaison; the victim books the room under an assumed name. Let’s the killer in, they start kissing and caressing each other judging by his lips and the fact that Harvey’s shirt is undone. They get on the bed, the killer on top which is when they pulled out the knife and carried out the attack. Have you found his phone anywhere?” Sherlock got down to his knees carefully and looked under the bed for any evidence.

“No, actually. Maybe the killer took it with them to destroy it?” Greg replied as an officer knocked on the door and handed over some papers to the Inspector. “Got Callahan’s address here and some background information. Looks like he was a 2nd Lieutenant now, rather than Lieutenant.” Sherlock’s head popped up instantly from the other side of the bed.

“Really? That’s a reduction in rank, right there. Makes you wonder what he did to deserve a demotion.” The detective got back to his feet. “And as for the phone, if our killer just wanted to destroy it, they’d have done that and left it in the bathroom. No, they’ve taken it for another reason. Well, I think I’ve got everything I can from here. Let’s go check out Callahan’s place.” 

They left the hotel, Sherlock texting Molly about the case with a list of questions for her when she performed the autopsy. Greg brought his car around, the detective getting in the front passenger seat. He played with his phone for a moment before sending a message to John.

:: Are you alright? – SH ::

:: Yes, thanks for asking. I’m sorry I ducked out so quickly. – JW ::

:: It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Tell me, what offences could result in a loss of army rank? – SH ::

:: It depends but dishonourable conduct is one, insubordination and disrespecting an officer can do it. Going AWOL too. It’s down to the circumstances of each case. – JW ::

:: Thank you. I’m going to Callahan’s place with Lestrade now, don’t know when I’ll be back so don’t wait up for me. – SH ::

The car pulled up to an apartment block that was on a good public transport line for commuting, either into London or the other way towards Sandhurst. Greg parked up and found the building manager, showing his badge and asking to be let into Callahan’s flat.

“How easy do you think it would be to get our victim’s service record?” Sherlock asked as they walked in, he slowly cast his eyes around. The flat was very neat and tidy, something that was pretty typical of those in the military. The shoes by the door were all in the same size which meant that the victim lived alone. _‘There was no ring on his finger and no lighter band of skin either so he wasn’t and hasn’t been married. Why meet his lover in a hotel and not here then?’_

“Service record won’t be a problem. The details of any incidents, complaints or disciplinary action could be more difficult. Due to data protection and confidentiality.” The Inspector answered as he looked over some photographs, they were mostly group shots of the recruits that enrolled in the Academy at Sandhurst. He noted there was no obvious family photos.

“Just as you can’t slander the dead, the deceased have no right to privacy, Lestrade.” Sherlock replied coolly as he went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. _‘Not much of a selection. Evidently doesn’t enjoy cooking and no one cooks for him either. I’d say he’s definitely single but still, there’s the question of why not bring a lover home? Ashamed? Gay but not out perhaps?’_

“It wouldn’t be Callahan’s rights that would be infringed, it’ll be the complainants. Leave it with me, I’ll get what I can.” Greg replied as he opened the fridge. “Beer, juice and not much else in here.”

“Well that’s because he doesn’t like to cook so there’s very little point in buying fresh meat and vegetables as they’ll only spoil and need to be thrown out. There’s a lot of tins in the cupboard to bulk out a meal and I’d be surprised if there’s not some steaks in the freezer.” The detective replied, smiling when the DI opened the chiller to reveal he was spot on. Sherlock’s phone buzzed again.

:: UCH just called me in, there was a huge gas explosion and it’s all hands on deck. Don’t know when I’ll be back but I’ll try to keep you updated. – JW ::

The two of them went into the bedroom next, it was dark in there. The blinds on the window were closed so not much natural light was getting in. The bed was large, at least queen sized, though the evidence suggested that only one side was ever slept in. On top of the duvet was a high-end laptop which Sherlock picked up immediately.

“Now this is interesting. Nothing else that I’ve seen has given me the impression that Callahan is particularly fond of technology and gadgets, yet here we have a fairly expensive laptop. I wonder what he does with it that means he’s willing to pay for a better experience?” The detective sat down on the floor with his legs crossed and pressed the power button. 

“Not even password protected. He clearly never lets anyone come into this flat, otherwise he’d have some sort of security in place.” Sherlock commented as Greg opened and closed the wardrobe, not finding anything interesting in there. It was mostly fatigues, formal dress uniforms and some casual clothes. “Harvey Callahan’s web bookmarks, we’ll start with the top one. He’s a member of ACAS – the Aged Cheese Appreciation Society. He logs on every day and spends a lot of time on their forums, so it seems.”

“Come again? Doing what exactly? Discussing cheese?” Lestrade came over and sank down to sit next to Sherlock who was already on the site, looking through the posts that Callahan had made.

“So it appears. He posts under the name ‘AmateurAffineur’- which is an oxymoron, by the way. Others on the forum simply refer to him as AA for short. He’s a moderator and looks to be one of their top contributors. There’s a pinned post from him going over the basics of how to age cheese properly.” Sherlock clicked on the entry to bring it up for them, reading select paragraphs out.

“Picking a suitable subject for aging is of great importance. You want a cheese that is strong enough to withstand the entire process, however it will need to be malleable enough to respond to the guidance you give. This way you’ll end up with a wonderful cheese that you can share with other enthusiasts. Being able to pick out specimens that have the greatest potential and are just right is a skill that can only be developed with experience.”

“Initial stages: It cannot be stressed enough that you must not rush this stage. You are laying the groundwork for a more fulfilling and enjoyable conclusion for all concerned here. Time invested now will not be wasted. You need to nurture your cheese, making sure to maintain optimum conditions for the beneficial growth that you are looking for.”

“Once the process has started, you must constantly assess your strategy with your end goal in mind. Encouraging development that you want and discouraging what you don’t. The cheese may need constant micro adjustments depending on your starting point, it will be reliant on you for all of its needs so be prepared to devote considerable resources to their progress.” 

“Once you feel your cheese might be ready, you should test it first, if you get a negative reaction then you’ll need to revisit prior stages to rework your cheese. However, if the results are positive then you should be able to reap the fruits of all your hard work and see the time you’ve invested rewarded with a final product that you can show off proudly.”

Sherlock frowned as he finished reading, he couldn’t help noticing a distinct lack of concrete instructions for something that was supposed to be a guide to help others learn how to age cheeses. In fact, on the main page itself there were several links to much more comprehensive tutorials on other sites that gave detailed descriptions of equipment, required humidity levels and storage conditions.

“Huh, you’d think someone who loves cheese so much would have some in his flat, right?” Greg commented with a confused huff. Sherlock suddenly let go of the laptop and it was only reflex that meant that the DI grabbed it before it fell off his lap. “Woah! Careful!”

“Lestrade! You’re a genius!” Sherlock exclaimed as he got up swiftly, that wild look on his face whenever he had made an important discovery. “Clearly, they aren’t talking about cheese on that forum, not at all! Tell me, why do people use euphemisms?”

“Euphemisms? Ah, well, when they want to talk about something sensitive, I guess?” The DI got up from the floor too, still holding the laptop. “Like sex, a lot of people use metaphors when they are out in public because it’s more polite and you don’t know who is listening.”

“Yes, you’ve hit the nail on the head again. Well done, you’re on a roll! This guide that Callahan has written has nothing to do with cheese and _everything_ to do with sex… and with that in mind, talking about nurturing something that ‘you can share with other enthusiasts’ becomes a lot more sinister, don’t you agree?” Sherlock watched as Greg’s face grew sombre as he caught on to what Sherlock was insinuating.

“You’re talking about sexual abuse. Grooming someone that they then pass around like some sort of shared toy? …I think you might be on to something, Sherlock, but I’m going to need more than coded forum posts if I’m going to openly explore that as a line of inquiry.” This case had just gone from a brutal murder into something altogether more sordid. Sherlock checked his watch; it was too late to go to Sandhurst in person today.

“I believe our answer lies at the Academy, Inspector. You get me the details of why Callahan was demoted and any complaints made against him by cadets. I’ll take his login details on ACAS and go through these posts with a fine-tooth comb and see if I can’t piece together enough information to identify a victim of the ring. Between the two of us we should find something more solid to base our accusations on.” It was shaping up to be an all-nighter, just the way he liked it. 

“What about the killer? What should we be looking at to identify them?” Greg asked as he put the laptop back on the bed with an air of disgust around him. “Track Callahan’s phone, maybe?”

“Yes, but don’t forget that we know that someone went into that hotel wearing one set of clothes and left wearing different ones. I recommend getting some CCTV footage of the busier streets in that area and watching for such a person around our time of death.” The detective replied as he gave the room one last look, to see if he’d missed anything.

“I’ll get someone on it. Come on, let’s head back into London and I’ll drop you off at yours.” Lestrade sighed as he shook his head again, leading them out of the apartment. “No matter how long I do this job for, I never get used to cases like this. Maybe the day the darker side of humanity doesn’t shock and horrify me is the day I should retire…” Sherlock put his hand on Greg’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze in silent solidarity.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Discussion of previous suicidal ideation and intent.

John thrived in situations like this. All around him was a tsunami of noise, cries of pain, alarms sounding, colleagues speaking in urgent tones but inside his own head there was nothing but an immovable focus on the task at hand.

“Patient is going into hypovolemic shock; I’m putting in an IV line, get me some O negative blood, I need it now.” John grabbed the equipment he needed and put the line in with practiced ease. Once the blood transfusion started, the doctor watched the heart monitor while taking the patient’s pulse manually with his hand. “Great, heart rate is stronger and slowing down. Keep an eye on him.”

Another casualty was brought in by ambulance and John moved to help the paramedics transfer the young woman from the gurney to the bed. The gas explosion must have been huge because the injured just kept on coming. He knew it had been in an apartment building and that patients were being sent to every capable A&E in the area but other than that, he had no details. John just concentrated on each emergency that rolled through the doors.

“No! NO! She’s crashing! Bring me the cart! Now!” The doctor cried out as he began CPR, doing chest compressions while a nurse performed rescue breaths after each cycle. Another nurse charged the paddles of the defibrillator, shouting a warning before shocking the woman. “No response, continue CPR and charge again.” John stated as he resumed chest compressions. Two more shocks and he shook his head reluctantly.

“We’ve lost her. Calling Time of Death at… 7:16pm. Sorry, team, and thank you.” John sighed as he checked his watch and wrote it on the deceased’s chart, his heart was heavy but another patient needed his attention as their heart monitor screamed an alarm. _‘Later. I can remember the lost later, there’s still work to do.’_

John wasn’t the head of the A&E Department, not by a long shot, but at times of high stress like this, he became the de-facto leader by unspoken agreement. Assessing the situation and prioritising those who can benefit the most from his intervention was as instinctual to him as breathing. The doctor knew he couldn’t save everyone, he didn’t like it much, but he’d rather make those difficult calls than spread himself too thin and save no one.

“They are still pulling people out of the rubble, but they’re finding less survivors.” John overheard a paramedic speaking to a staff nurse as he rushed past them to grab another IV stand. _‘I wonder if this really was a gas explosion, it sounds like carnage out there.’_ He couldn’t help wondering that sometimes, especially as he knew the last reported ‘gas explosion’ was actually due to Semtex, a sniper and a psychopath with a sing-song voice.

“We need more blankets and bed linens, please, soon as you can.” John grabbed an orderly by the arm as he passed. The department was running out of everything due to the sheer volume of seriously injured patients flowing in. He’d already put in an urgent request for more O negative blood from the blood bank, he could only hope there was enough to go around all the hospitals dealing with this tragedy.

“Dr Watson! I could use a hand here.” A nurse called for him, she was with a man who had a dislocated elbow among other injuries. “Mr Coulter has had a sedative already; we just need to put the elbow back in now.” John nodded and gently took the patient by the wrist.

“Good evening, Mr Coulter, would you mind naming the planets in the solar system for me?” The doctor asked, the patient blinked at him slowly in confusion. “Come on, I’ll even start you off. There’s Mercury, what’s next after that?”

“Venus… then Earth, Ma- AH!” Mr Coulter cried out in pain but his elbow was back in the socket and he wouldn’t remember this once the medication wore off. John smiled as the nurse gave him a grateful pat on his forearm, about to say something when a patient with a severe head injury started fitting in another bay, pulling his attention away again.

Emergency medicine; John was in his element here. It would be wrong to say he ‘enjoyed’ it, these were real people who were suffering, no decent human being could be happy at seeing that. But he did feel useful and the sense of accomplishment he got whenever a patient was handed over safely to a ward reinforced a positive feedback loop that told him that he was where he needed to be.

As it was, another six patients didn’t make it that night, and that was only the ones John was involved with. He had no doubt that the total death toll for the explosion was likely to be much higher. But he had given everything and done what he could. As the doctor grabbed his coat from the staff room, he saw streaks of light threatening to break over the horizon through the window. He glanced at his watch and saw it was just after seven in the morning.

As John walked out through the main doors, he knew he should head straight home for a shower, some food and much needed sleep. But after sixteen hours of noise, adrenaline and death, he just needed a few moments of quiet. 

John walked over to a small memorial garden on the grounds of the hospital, sinking down to sit on the grass. It was wet from early morning dew, but the doctor didn’t care. He leant back on his hands and tipped his head to watch the sky as he consciously slowed down his breathing. His ears picked up the sound of two sets of footsteps, he lowered his head and saw Sherlock and Mycroft approaching him. 

John watched as the brothers read the story of his gruelling emergency shift off his tired face and aching body. The older Holmes’ expression was unreadable as usual, but the detective was frowning in concern, he pulled a bottle of water out of his pocket and handed it over.

“Does the fact you’re here mean there was more to that gas explosion than meets the eye?” As he addressed Mycroft, the doctor’s voice cracked. It was raw from speaking so much for hours on end. John opened the bottle and took a long swig.

“I’m examining that possibility; however, the initial impressions indicate that the scale of the tragedy was down to poorly maintained systems rather than deliberate sabotage. 26 fatalities so far, approximately double that in injured.” Mycroft watched as John closed his eyes, lowering his head for a moment to acknowledge the loss of life. “Your empathy can’t help them now, doctor. Caring isn’t an advantage and cannot save lives.”

“Bullshit…” John’s curse surprised both the brothers, making them look down at him in shock but the former soldier met their gazes steadily. “I’ve never heard anything so idiotic in my whole life and I’ve heard plenty of stupid things. I am a man who cares, cares a lot if we’re all honest here. Yet in a crisis situation like last night, I am able to work effectively and efficiently. I can push my body past its limits, going without food, water and rest far longer than under normal circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I have to admit that you work exceptionally well under pressure, you make difficult decisions quickly and you have one of the best tactical minds that I’ve ever come across.” The civil servant tapped his umbrella against the ground twice as he offered these rare words of praise.

“You can’t have him, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was full of warning as he glared at his older brother. John allowed himself a tired grin at the thought of the pair of siblings bickering over him like some sort of prized possession.

“Caring doesn’t stop me thinking clearly, I just put those feelings to one side and focus on the job at hand. Anyone can learn how to do that if they try. Those emotions will still be there after the crisis has passed, it’s just a case of making time for them when the coast is clear… that’s what this is, by the way, in case it wasn’t obvious.” The doctor gestured to himself before taking another gulp of water, he poured the small amount that was left into his hand and scrubbed some of the sweat and other grime off his face.

“But as you’ve just explained, you put aside your caring nature to be able to work at peak performance. It’s not your capacity for sentiment that makes you good at your job.” Mycroft watched as John carefully stretched out his aching shoulder, wincing as bones cracked and popped.

“Have you ever met a doctor who has stopped caring? Or a soldier maybe? It makes for some pretty appalling situations, trust me. No, I am a good doctor _because_ I feel, not in spite of it. My empathy motivates me, it makes me work harder, think faster, go longer.” John looked up at Sherlock’s face, wondering if he was in his Mind Palace as he wasn’t speaking much. But the detective was listening carefully, absorbing everything with a contemplative look.

“Ok, I am willing to concede that there are some professions where empathy has its place in strengthening an individual’s will to do better… but I still stand by my original point, the simple fact of one person caring for another is not enough to save lives.” The older brother looked positively aggrieved at the fact he’d had to give some ground on this debate.

“Then clearly you’ve never been suicidal before.” There was a gasp from Sherlock but John missed the look on his face because he had flopped on to his back so he could stare up at the morning sky. “You have my therapy records, Mycroft, would you like to tell the class who I put down as my next of kin when I registered with Ella after I was first discharged?”

“… N/A. You put down ‘not applicable’.” There was no point in denying that patient/doctor confidentiality didn’t exist when it came to Mycroft Holmes, the embodiment of the British Government.

“Yep. I had no one to care about and no one cared about me either. Every night I sat in my tiny little bedsit with my gun in my hand. I’d put it to my temple, trying to work up the courage to pull the trigger. But there was always a little voice that asked me to wait just one more day.” John sat back up with a sigh and looked at Sherlock, watching the emotions flashing in his eyes. _‘He’s a very good actor but his eyes are usually honest.’_

“Then I bumped into an old friend who introduced me to a madman and before I knew it, I had people I cared about again. I didn’t feel the need to talk myself into waiting one more day anymore.” The doctor saw his flatmate swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. “… And if it hadn’t been for the fact that I knew Mrs Hudson and Greg cared about me then I wouldn’t be here right now, looking up at my best friend who I thought had died right in front of me.” 

“Caring saves lives, Mycroft… and whether caring is an advantage or not depends on the person in question, not the feelings involved. The fact I have people I care about gives me strength, and knowing people care about me gives me courage.” John hauled himself to his feet finally, he swayed a touch but Sherlock steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You need to go home and get some sleep. I’m meeting Lestrade now but Mycroft will take you.” The detective glanced at his older brother, seemingly daring him to argue but the civil servant was already summoning a car with his Blackberry. “Mrs Hudson was going to leave something for you in the oven when I told her you’d worked all night, make sure to eat it before you pass out.”

The three of them walked off the hospital grounds where a black sedan was waiting. It felt ridiculous to be taking a car for a journey that only took twenty minutes on foot but these weren’t normal circumstances. Sherlock saw his friend and brother into the car safely and John sank into the soft leather seat, closing his eyes. _‘This might actually be more comfortable than my bed.’_

“Dr Watson, tell me something, have you met anyone special lately?” Mycroft’s voice broke through the ex-soldier’s thoughts and he opened his eyes again and blinked in confusion.

“I’m sorry, I must have dropped off for a second there because it sounded like the British Government just enquired into my love life.” John’s capacity for snark was undiminished, despite his exhaustion. When he realised it was a genuine question, the doctor let out an incredulous noise. 

“Like you don’t already know the answer to that. No, there’s no one I’ve found who likes me _and_ understands how big of an uncompromising presence Sherlock is in my life… Why? Do you know someone who’d be willing to have me?” They’d already arrived at Baker Street but John didn’t make a move to get out yet, curiosity piqued.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“…I don’t believe you.” John’s reply made Mycroft frown in affront. “Don’t be offended, we both know that you can and have lied to my face before. It makes it a little hard to take your words at face value. Thanks for the lift.” The doctor unclipped his seatbelt and opened the door.

“Ok, you might not trust me, but that doesn’t explain why you’ve instantly dismissed the idea that my brother could want you.” Mycroft stated as John got out of the car. John sighed and lent down to look back inside at him.

“Because he’s Sherlock… and you don’t expect the Sun to want you back.”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Descriptions/Reference to Past Grooming/Sexual Abuse.  
> Description of Violence.  
> On Screen Suicide.

:: Pick me up from the University College Hospital. – SH ::

Sherlock put his phone away and let his mind go back to the case. He had spent the night trawling through the forum posts of ACAS. The knowledge that it was all an elaborate metaphor to disguise the depraved desires of a group of sexual predators had made the detective’s skin crawl so much that he’d felt compelled to have a scorching hot shower before he left this morning.

He hadn’t been able to identify any victims but from his intense study of the subject matter, Sherlock was soon able to identify a pattern. Once a target was identified there came a period where the abuser would befriend them and build up trust. Groomers are usually experts in human nature, able to present themselves as the perfect friend and partner. Once the connection has been established and cemented, they gradually sexualise the relationship.

Then the next steps were to isolate the target socially, making them dependant on the abuser. Some showered their victims with gifts to build up the feeling that they were owed something. Others created an environment similar to a siege mentality, fostering a feeling of Us vs. Them to turn the groomed against concerned family members and friends.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed deeply as he recalled the final steps. Once the abuser feels they have a strong enough grip on the victim in every way: physically, emotionally and mentally. They’d use their formidable manipulation skills to coerce the target to sleep with other members of the ring. Of course, they were careful to paint a situation where the victim seemed to have a choice in the matter, but thanks to the grooming, such consent was only an illusion.

The lengths of time that the ‘relationship’ persisted after that varied. Some lasted a few weeks, others a few months. Eventually the groomer got bored and moved on, threatening their victim with ruin, taunting them and insisting that their participation was purely voluntary. They counted on the intense shame to keep the groomed silent… Then the cycle would start from the beginning again.

Lestrade’s unmarked police car pulled up in front of Sherlock and interrupted his thoughts, he opened the passenger side door and climbed in, there were two coffees sitting in the cupholders so the detective picked up the nearest one.

“Morning, there’s sugar in the glove box.” Greg greeted him as they pulled out of the hospital grounds to head to Sandhurst. “Saw about that gas explosion on the news, looked really bad. Is John alright?” Sherlock opened the glove compartment and grabbed a handful of sugar sachets, gripping his coffee between his knees as he pulled off the lid to add some.

“Exhausted but still able to hold his own in a philosophical debate with Mycroft, it was rather amusing to watch actually.” Sherlock tore open four of the sachets and poured them into his drink, grabbing a plastic stirrer to mix it in.

“Yeah? Doesn’t surprise me actually, the Doc is usually the type to live and let live but get him started on something he’s passionate about and there’s no stopping him.” The Inspector picked up his black coffee and took a short sip before putting it back in the cupholder.

“My brother would never admit it out loud but he respects John immensely, at first glance he may seem pretty ordinary but he’s anything but. He’s still one of the most interesting people I know, even after all this time.” Sherlock put the lid back on his coffee and took a sip with a noise of satisfaction. “But anyway, the case, found anything?”

“Callahan was demoted two years ago for dishonourable conduct. Names weren’t mentioned but a fellow officer at the Academy reported what appeared to be an inappropriate relationship with a male cadet. It was the third official complaint against him in the space of seven years.” Greg nodded to a file sitting on the dash. 

“We’ve got a meeting with a Major Deakins. Officially it’s to discuss Callahan’s murder but I’m thinking we can use it to get more information to base our grooming accusations on.” Lestrade continued as Sherlock grabbed the file and flipped it open. “We were also able to spot a young man on the CCTV who was seen twice in the right area wearing different clothes. There’s a screen capture of him in there too so we can show the Major.”

“So, it _is_ men he targets then, I did wonder.” Sherlock murmured as he looked at the photograph, it was grainy and not the best quality. A young man with shoulder length dark coloured hair. “Hard to tell from this but I would put his age at mid to late twenties. Bit older than your average cadet, unless he enlisted late. His haircut is hardly regulation though.”

“He might not have been a victim himself; Callahan could have preyed on someone he knows maybe. Also, if he has the phone, he’s not switched it on yet as the last telecoms mast ping was before TOD.” Greg drained the last of his coffee. “What do you think the killer plans to do with the phone anyway?”

“I’m not sure, blackmail other members of the ring? Hard to say without more data.” The detective closed the file back up and sat it on his lap as his phone buzzed. “Ah, Molly’s just finalised the autopsy and has sent a summary of the report.”

“She’s of the opinion that Callahan was probably only alive for the first two or three hits which punctured the lungs and heart, causing massive blood loss and rapid death. The remaining twenty two stab wounds were delivered post-mortem or very close to it. The tip of the knife broke off when it hit the sternum at an angle and remained in the chest cavity.” Sherlock read out the message with a frown.

“That doesn’t take us much farther than we were yesterday really, nothing of note came up in the stomach contents and Callahan was remarkably healthy for a man in his early fifties.” Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket as they drove up to the gates of Sandhurst. The Detective Inspector showed his badge to the guard and explained that they were expected for a meeting with Major Deakins.

Once they were inside and parked, they were both escorted into the administration building, being shown into a large office. The Major was a grizzled middle aged man with a scar that ran down the left side of his face. As he shook their hands, Sherlock made his initial deductions. _‘From a family with a strong military tradition. The scar is approximately three years old. Was in active combat until recently meaning he’s not been in this post for very long.’_

“Please sit, gentlemen, I understand you are here to discuss the murder of 2nd Lieutenant Harvey Callahan? Terrible business. He’s been an instructor here for nearly fifteen years, he’ll be missed.” Though Deakins kept a straight face, Sherlock was able to detect that the Major wasn’t being entirely sincere in his statement. There was an undercurrent of personal dislike towards his fellow officer and colleague.

“Yes, we were hoping you could help us with some information?” Lestrade pulled out his notebook and opened it. “You said that the deceased was an instructor here? What exactly did he do?”

“He trained cadets in team building, usually through sports like rugby and football. Apparently, he also used to teach wrestling to the recruits but he’d dropped that before I came to the Academy.” Sherlock and Greg shared a glance for a fraction of a second at the implications of that little snippet of information.

“Would that have had anything to do with the disciplinary action from a couple of years back?” Sherlock leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers together. The Major stiffened slightly as he looked at the detective, as if gauging how much he already knew.

“2nd Lt Callahan was well liked by the recruits; he had a talent for being able to draw out the more withdrawn lads and help them reach their full potential.” Deakins shifted in his chair and looked down at his desk. “That said, I am led to believe that in the past, there have been… instances, shall we say, where he has allowed himself to become too close to individual cadets. It is my understanding that he decided to step back from teaching wrestling to help avoid any appearances of inappropriate behaviour.”

“Major Deakins, forgive me, but I’m going to be blunt. We have reason to believe that Callahan has continually abused the position of trust that he held in regards to the recruits by initiating improper relationships with a select few.” Sherlock watched the soldier for a beat before he continued. “I shall take the fact you just grit your teeth to mean that these accusations don’t come as a complete surprise to you.”

“I can’t deny that there have been persistent rumours surrounding him regarding fraternisation. However there have been few official complaints as it appears these relationships, if they existed, were entirely consensual.” Deakins seemed to be carefully choosing his words.

“I’m afraid evidence has come to our attention that paints the situation in a vastly different light.” Lestrade reached into the file and withdrew the CCTV picture. “Major, do you recognise this young man? We wish to speak to him in connection with our inquiry.” Deakins took the picture and studied it for a moment before he handed it back with a shake of his head.

“I’m sorry but I don’t, however I’ve not been stationed here for very long. When a class graduates then there usually is a group photo on the day of their passing out parade, if this man is a former trainee then he might be in one of those pictures.” The Major stood up from his desk, pushing his chair back. “If you both follow me, I’ll show you where we hang those photos for posterity.” The three of them left the office and walked a short way to a large assembly hall.

The room was currently in use by a class who were learning defence techniques. The cadets were paired up and sparring with one another while an officer walked through the room, correcting some and praising others. There was an atmosphere of camaraderie, the scent of sweat and the sounds of skin hitting skin mixed in with playful banter.

Deakins led them away from the class towards the back wall where there were two rows of framed pictures, one above the other. He instructed a corporal to supervise and left them to it, directing them to return to his office if they needed him again.

Greg took out the picture from the file and started studying the photos at one end while Sherlock took the other, pulling out his pocket magnifier. They’d been looking for a few minutes when the DI piped up.

“Hey, I just found the Doc! Christ, he looks so young and fresh faced there!” Sherlock’s head snapped up and he darted over to see for himself. John Watson was standing among his peers in full dress uniform. He was a little older than the average recruit due to him enlisting after completing his medical degree. “It’s a little odd to see him looking so serious, if I’m honest.”

“It’s an official photograph, he’d have to be formal. I have no doubt there’s others from that day where he’s grinning like a maniac and causing havoc.” Sherlock commented as he passed the magnifier over the face of his friend, the tan he associated with the army doctor had yet to materialise and there was a lack of frown lines on his forehead. _‘His eyes look sad. I wonder if he’d spoken to his parents just before this was taken?’_

“I can believe it. He’s told me some of the things he got up to with his mates when they were off duty or on leave. No one can party like soldiers.” Greg smiled as he went back to looking for their suspect, not noticing the detective bristling besides him.

“When? He’s never told me about anything like that.” Sherlock walked over to the graduation picture he’d been looking at before they found John. Lestrade gave Sherlock a weird look at hearing the petulant tone.

“Over a pint usually, I’ve got a few tales of my own from when I was training or about things that happened when I was on the beat.” The Inspector shrugged and grinned to himself. “Dunno why you are so jealous, stories about lads larking about and getting into trouble isn’t really your thing anyway.”

“I am _not_ jealous!” Sherlock insisted automatically, not even needing to look to know that Greg didn’t believe him. The detective ignored him as he moved on to another picture and scanned the faces carefully. He froze and leaned in closer. “Lestrade, come here! I think I’ve found our man.” The DI was beside him in a heartbeat, he compared the man that Sherlock was pointing to against the screen capture.

“You’re right! Well done! This was taken four years ago, so if we look at the records for that year we should end up with a name. Hey, lad, could you take us back to the Major?” Greg turned to their escort who nodded politely and led the two of them away.

An hour later and the pair were back in Lestrade’s car heading for London, the name of the man in the picture was Morgan Bartley, a 25 year old Army dropout. Apparently, he’d gone AWOL shortly after graduation and had been dishonourably discharged. The Inspector had found out he now worked as a freelance photographer and had a home address in the London Borough of Newham. That’s where they were headed when the DI’s phone beeped.

“Oh, check that for me, Sherlock, I set it to let me know when Callahan’s phone was switched back on. It might be Bartley.” The detective grabbed the mobile from the phone holder and pulled up the tracking app and saw there’d been a ping to a mast near their intended destination. _‘But what is he doing on the phone right now?’_

On a hunch, Sherlock pulled out his own mobile and checked the ACAS website. Sure enough, on the forum there was a new thread, apparently started by AmateurAffineur entitled ‘The debt has been repaid’. Sherlock clicked on it to bring up the text. It read:

“The rapist known as Harvey Callahan is dead. I killed him with my own two hands, my only regret is that he didn’t suffer more. So remember this, everyone’s actions will catch up with them eventually. I’ve used AA’s moderator privileges to collect and send all members’ personal details to both the police and the media, along with a letter of introduction that explains the real purpose behind this website. You’ve ruined so many lives, now it’s finally your turn, I’m just sorry I won’t be around to see it first hand.”

Sherlock felt a chill go down his spine as he saw those words, he read them again – just to be sure before speaking to Greg urgently.

“I suggest you step on it, Lestrade, Bartley’s left what sounds like a suicide note on the ACAS forum.” The Detective Inspector took one look at Sherlock’s face before turning on his hidden lights and sirens as he stepped on the throttle, he grabbed his radio and asked for back up and an ambulance to meet them at the address.

The pair of them arrived first at the block of flats where they decided to split up, Greg went inside the building to try and gain entry from the front while Sherlock went around the back and up the fire escape. The detective ran up to the third floor, thanking his lucky stars when he saw a half opened window. He quietly pulled it out fully and climbed in to the flat.

The apartment smelt like cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol, he crept through the kitchen quietly. The bedroom door was ajar and through it he saw a black haired man sitting on the end of the bed. He was holding something in his hand and Sherlock could hear the sound of quiet sobbing.

Just as Sherlock tried to creep closer unnoticed, Lestrade started pounding on the door, making Bartley look up sharply. He spotted the intruder and scrambled backwards on the bed until he was up against the wall.

“W-who are you?!” He cried out in fright, his voice slurring as the remains of a two litre bottle of cider was knocked off the bed. The detective heard the front door flying open behind him as he entered the bedroom. “Don’t come any closer!” Morgan opened the bottle in his hand and brought it towards his lips. _‘Ammonium thiocyanate. Used as a stabilising agent in photography. Highly toxic.’_ Sherlock stopped moving and raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Ok, ok, I’ll stay back. Don’t do anything rash, Mr Bartley, Callahan is not worth killing yourself over.” He glanced to his right when Greg came into his peripheral vision. “We know what he did to you, Morgan, to you and who knows how many other young men like you. You’ve brought his crimes out into the light.”

“Crimes!” Morgan trembled as he spat that word out, tears streaking his face. “Apparently it _isn’t_ a crime to manipulate an adult into loving you, then poison their mind and pass them around to your friends. If you’re not underage or classed as ‘vulnerable’ then it’s your own stupid fault as far as the law is concerned!”

“No, Morgan, please! Neither of us blame you for the abuse you’ve suffered, no right-minded person would.” The Inspector pleaded with him, desperate to prevent any further tragedy. “We can talk about what happened. Your side of the story will count in your defence. Please, you can trust us.”

“I can’t trust anyone! Even four years afterwards he’s still always in my head. How can I even think of opening up to anyone again when the same lips that told me I was special then laughed and called me useless when he was tired of me?” Bartley fisted his hair tightly with his free hand in anguish. “And believe me, I tried! I tried to forget! I tried to move on!”

“Why now?” Sherlock’s mind was whirling with plans to try and get that bottle out of the man’s hand. He needed to distract him and keep him talking for as long as possible. “You said it yourself, it’s been four years. What happened that made you take action now?” The police backup and the paramedics had arrived, standing behind the pair of them and watching the stand off. Morgan straightened his spine and met Sherlock’s eyes defiantly, a movement that reminded the detective strongly of John.

“My little brother told me he’d enlisted two weeks ago… and there was no way I was letting _that man_ have a chance to lay one finger on him.” Bartley snarled out those words as he moved the bottle closer to his lips when Lestrade attempted to take a step forward, making the DI fall back. 

“I came up with a plan. I texted Harvey, turns out he hadn’t changed his phone number, arrogant bastard. I told him I missed him, that I wanted to see him again, laid out in explicit detail exactly what I wanted him to do to me. He was wary to start with but eventually his lust won out and he agreed to meet me.” Morgan’s lip curled up in disdain, it seemed he’d picked up a thing or two about how to manipulate someone from Callahan, then used that skill against him.

“I packed up a bag with everything I’d need and bought the knife on the way, hiding it up my sleeve. I went into that hotel room, played my part until I had Harvey where I wanted him and stabbed him. But once I’d started, I couldn’t stop… even though I knew he was already dead, it was like a dam had burst inside me. I just wanted to rip him apart with my bare hands. I… I frightened myself.” Bartley sniffled before shaking his head with an angry growl, frustrated with his reactions.

“Why am I upset about that?! I don’t regret killing him! He was evil! He destroyed me!” The young man sniffled and wiped his eyes. “Once I’d calmed down, I went into the bathroom and cleaned myself up. I scrubbed the knife, changed my clothes and doused everything in bleach. I grabbed Harvey’s phone intending to delete our messages when I had the impulse to take it. I was going to use it to track down the others and kill them too… but I’m so pathetic, I don’t have the stomach to kill again.” Now Morgan’s binge drinking was making sense, he was feeling guilty for the murder and was distressed by that fact, angry and feeling hopeless.

“It’s not pathetic to have a conscience, you’re a good lad who has been through a lot. Think about your brother now then, Morgan! He wouldn’t want you to do this! If you kill yourself then who will protect him?” Greg’s body was tightly wound, ready to spring forwards, given even half a chance.

“You can’t guilt me, sir, I’ve lived with guilt and shame for so long now that I’ve forgotten what it was like before. I’ve done what I can for him. Eric will be fine, he’s stronger than me.” Bartley took a shaking breath as a fresh wave of tears flooded his eyes before an alarming sense of calm washed over his face.

Sherlock was darting forwards before he knew it but Morgan tipped the liquid in to his mouth and swallowed before Sherlock reached his side. Morgan started coughing instantly and the detective found himself pushed aside by the paramedics but by the time they got Bartley on the floor he’d already lost consciousness.

Sherlock looked on with an air of numb horror as Morgan deteriorated rapidly, he stopped breathing then he went into complete cardiac arrest. They worked on him for a full ten minutes before they admitted defeat. Sherlock didn’t even realise he was shaking until Greg put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, there’s nothing more that we can do here. I’ll take you home but I’ll need a statement tomorrow.” Lestrade led him out of the flat and building, getting back into his car. Greg put his hands on the wheel and sighed deeply. “Case closed, I guess, kinda hard to feel good about the outcome though. Are you ok?”

“I’m fine...” Sherlock answered reflexively, even though he knew he sounded very far from ‘fine’. He swiftly changed the subject to deflect Greg’s attention. “I just can’t help wondering how many men Callahan abused, he was there for fifteen years after all. He had plenty of opportunities what with the wrestling and the rugby.” Sherlock froze as thoughts and snippets of conversations started to replay in his mind, making connections he hadn’t previously seen.

_‘The one person I’d let myself get close to since before I was first deployed.’_

_‘I can’t trust anyone!’_

_‘This guy was his rugby trainer apparently.’_

_‘I think that this man, Harvey Callahan, obviously had a profound impact on John’s life if he was able to recognise him instantly after all these years.’_

_‘Even four years afterwards he’s still always in my head.’_

_‘As a last throw of the dice, I enlisted.’_

_‘He had a talent for being able to draw out the more withdrawn lads and help them reach their full potential.’_

_‘Take care of yourself because no one else is going to.’_

Sherlock felt sick, no wonder John hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near this case when he saw Callahan’s body. The doctor was so vulnerable and in need of a friend when he joined the Army, susceptible to being manipulated by someone who had been doing this for a long time. The detective gritted his teeth, it was a damned good job Callahan was already dead as Sherlock would have been quite willing to kill him himself.

They were back at Baker Street before he knew it. Sherlock got out of the car without a backwards glance, he needed to talk with John.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Discussion of Past Grooming/Sexual Abuse.  
> Discussion of Past Suicidal Ideation.

John was sitting on the couch watching the telly. He’d made himself get back up after a seven hour sleep, not wanting to mess up his body clock too much. The doctor was still knackered and all the muscles in his body ached. His eyes had drifted closed for the hundredth time when he heard the front door and footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock swept into the room, eyes darting around until they found John and stared at him.

“Sherlock? Are you ok? What’s wrong?” John switched the tv off with the remote and stood from the couch, approaching his friend. “You’re shaking like a leaf! …Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea, you haven’t even taken your coat off.” John herded his unusually silent flatmate into the kitchen, taking off his jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair and making a mug of tea for them both.

“The man who killed Callahan committed suicide right in front of me.” Sherlock finally said as he picked up the cup, his grey eyes were fixated on John’s face. The doctor had been the subject of the detective’s intense focus before but this was something different, an apprehensive anticipation gripped him.

“Oh God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry, that must have been a horrible thing to witness.” John automatically reached over to squeeze Sherlock’s forearm in comfort, shuffling his stool to be closer to him. He tried to push his rising sense of foreboding out of his mind.

“John, I know about Callahan. I know about what he was, what he did to people.” Sherlock’s eyes contained an addendum to the words that had just been spoken _‘what he did to people like you’_. The former soldier gasped and let go of his flatmate like he’d been burnt. There was a tense moment where neither of them dared to breathe.

“Uh, sorry about that. I don’t kn- um, I mean… it’s nothing, forget it.” John cleared his throat, averting his gaze for a moment before forcing his face back into a neutral expression and looking to the detective again. “Anyway, carry on. What did Callahan do?” Sherlock placed his tea back down on the table in a deliberate manner and steepled his fingers. 

“Harvey Callahan was a sexual predator. He was also a member of a grooming ring and spent his time targeting young men he met while working as an instructor at the Sandhurst Academy. His killer was a former victim… as were you.” John was too scared to move, to breathe, to even blink. It was like watching an oncoming train hurtling down the tracks straight for him and being unable to jump out of the way. At receiving no response, the detective continued.

“A large part of me hoped I was wrong; it couldn’t be true because I should have deduced it. But you’ve made an art of burying away the things you don’t want people to know. If there’s no evidence, no data, then no one can learn your secrets. You count on people not digging too far beneath the surface.” The legs of the stool screeched against the floor as John got to his feet shakily, he was breathing heavily but he plastered a clueless grin on his face.

“Nope, don’t actually have a clue what you are talking about there, Sherlock… I’m going to turn in early, I’m still tired. Goodnight, or good afternoon I should say.” John laughed awkwardly and turned away, intending to flee up into his room. He grabbed the handle of the kitchen door to pull it open, an arm appeared from over his head to hold it closed.

John didn’t dare turn around, he just stared at the wood in front of his nose, painfully aware of the sound of his own breathing as he tried not to panic. _‘He can’t know, I can’t tell him. I was so stupid! I need to get away, I can’t I-’_

“It’s actually a relief to see that you’re still such a terrible liar.” Sherlock was right behind him, close enough to prevent John from escaping across the kitchen and through the sliding doors into the living room. “I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that you’ve developed such mental techniques to compensate for that fact... Talk to me, John, tell me what happened.”

“Why should I?!” Angry tears sprang into John’s eyes, he felt trapped in all ways possible. “If Greg hadn’t bloody called you about Harvey’s murder then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation! God, that’s why I pretty much ran away from the crime scene. I knew if I stayed on the case then you’d work it out, because I’d be thinking about it and you’d read it from me like an open book.” John leant forward and let his forehead thump against the door.

“It was just easier to pretend it never happened, alright? I didn’t want anyone to know about it because all the warning signs were there, I was just too stupid and naive to see them.” He headbutted the door again with a hitch of his breath. “Harvey was warm, caring and supportive. After a lifetime of being starved of affection, here was someone who finally noticed me. I trusted him completely.” At another harder bang Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him away from the door to prevent him from hurting himself anymore.

“Even without Callahan’s murder, something would have happened to bring this out, another grooming case perhaps, it was just a matter of time… you know how I know?” Sherlock spoke in a soft and soothing tone. John started to tremble harder, he clenched his hands into fists as he shook his head. “Because someone recently told me that even if you can put your emotions aside, you have to make time for them when the coast is clear.” John let out a watery surprised laugh followed by a hiccough at having his own words used against him.

“Christ, I wasn’t talking about this though.” John pulled away from Sherlock and the detective let him go without a word. The doctor picked up his abandoned tea and knocked it back in one, going to the sink and washing it up. If he was going to discuss this, he couldn’t look his best friend in the eye as he did so.

“Harvey was the first man I’d ever slept with. I knew I was bi before then but I just hadn’t met a guy that I was really into like that, you know? But he only ever convinced me to sleep with another man once, he spun me a story about getting in over his head with a loan shark... ‘luckily’ he had apparently taken a liking to me. Harvey didn’t even need to suggest it in words, I offered.” John shuddered involuntarily and he felt a deep flush of shame flood his face.

“It wasn’t really your idea, John. Don’t blame yourself, that’s exactly how they operate.” Sherlock’s tone was pleading with him. The doctor turned around finally; the detective hadn’t moved from where he’d left him and there was an almost agonised look on his face. _‘I’m not sure which I would have preferred; his scorn or his pity.’_

“I know, I know.” John’s attempt at reassuring his friend didn’t sound wholly convincing. John’s exhaustion was creeping up on him again after the adrenaline of being confronted with his past waned. He walked into the living room and sank down on the couch. Sherlock followed and sat in his own chair. 

“After Harvey picked me up from the other guy’s place, I felt sick, disgusted and used. I had an… epiphany, I guess? I suddenly saw the relationship for what it really was. I broke it off, I told him that I’d report him if he didn’t leave me the hell alone. I’d only enlisted to provoke my parents, it wouldn’t have mattered to me if they’d discharged me, not then at least. He agreed, I graduated and I didn’t see him again until yesterday.” John felt emotionally wrung out, he let his head fall back with his eyes closed.

“Thank you for telling me, I know that was hard for you. I’m sorry something like that ever happened to you and that you felt it was something you had to keep a secret from people.” Sherlock spoke after a moment or two. “… Your strength of character continues to astonish me.” John snorted heatedly.

“If I was that strong then I should have reported him straight away, who knows how many lads I could have saved the same pain if I hadn’t been such a bloody coward!” The doctor shook his head angrily, he didn’t want to be told he was brave, that he’d endured. In short, he didn’t want to be thought of as a survivor of abuse.

“Even three complaints and a demotion didn’t stop him, John. I can understand your reasons but you need to stop continually flogging yourself, and not just about this. You blame yourself for everything and you never ever cut yourself any slack.” Sherlock moved from his chair so he was sitting next to John on the couch.

“I’ve always admired your inner strength and fortitude, you know. When I realised it was you who had shot Hope, I knew then I’d underestimated you. It was a feeling I became familiar with over time in regards to you. Not very many people surprise me, John, but you did. You still do, even now.” Sherlock’s face was open as he spoke, seemingly not wanting the doctor to mistake him for being anything but completely sincere.

“I know you probably think I pity you now – or worse, that I’m disgusted because you allowed sentiment to blind you to the reality of Callahan’s manipulation.” The detective gave his friend a knowing look when John coughed and glanced away briefly. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m just amazed that, despite your upbringing, Sandhurst and the war, you’ve somehow managed to become the kindest and most forgiving man that I’ve ever met.”

John was almost as surprised as Sherlock when he threw his arms around the latter and hugged him tightly, neither one ever being big on physical displays of affection with each other in the past. _‘I’m punching the next person that calls him heartless, I don’t care if it’s the bloody Queen herself!’_

“I’m so lucky that I met you, you know, I was so bitter and angry when I was discharged.” The ex-soldier drew back with an embarrassed little smile. “I was part of something in the Army. I was needed, I was useful. Then I got injured, flown back to the UK and was expected to fit a Captain John Watson: army medic shaped peg into a Doctor John Watson: civilian shaped hole.”

“When Mike introduced us, he couldn’t have been any more obvious if he’d shouted ‘Befriend this miserable creature!’ at you as soon as I walked in the room.” That comment made them both laugh, breaking the intense atmosphere a little. “You didn’t have to be the world’s only Consulting Detective to see that I was struggling to find a place where I fit comfortably.”

“True, and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that I initially only saw how you could be of use to me. A doctor and a soldier, two very different skill sets in one person. It seemed like a win-win situation, we both had something the other was willing to provide.” Sherlock’s grin was mirrored back at him on John’s face. “And the rest is history, as they say.” He gestured between them as he finished, the pair fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, thinking to themselves.

“Speaking of my unusual skill set, I sometimes wonder if I’m in balance.” John broke the quiet with what he’d been musing on, at seeing the detective’s questioning look, he elaborated. “Whether I’ve saved more lives than I’ve taken or vice versa.”

“Obviously your scales are heavily weighted on the side of saving lives, doctor. Yes, you were on the front lines but your primary objective was to treat your comrades rather than fighting insurgents. As for the tally since you’ve been a civilian, I’d say you saved more lives just last night than you’ve taken in nearly four years… and that’s without getting into a debate on the relative value of one person’s life in comparison to another.” Sherlock replied with an assured air, as though the answer should never have been in doubt.

“Aww, well aren’t you just full of nice things to say today?” John smiled, turning his head away slightly as he blushed. “God, my head doesn’t half hurt.” He complained as he rubbed his forehead with a frown.

“Yes, well if you will insist on headbutting doors then it’s no surprise you have a headache.” Sherlock looked at the time on his watch. “You should get some more sleep; you were awake for approaching twenty-four hours total yesterday and this morning. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to keep it down.” John yawned on cue and got to his feet with a nod, he walked to the living room door before he stopped, turning back around with a nervous air.

“Um, Sherlock? I’m hoping that I’m too tired to dream but still, I’m likely to have nightmares again tonight, so I’m sorry if I disturb you and don’t worry if you hear me, ok?” The doctor blurted that out, turning to race up the stairs before waiting for an answer. After last time, he knew Sherlock would be willing to sit with him if he woke up upset in the night, but there was still a large part of him that didn’t want to show his friend how emotionally fragile he could be. _‘I can handle it.’_


	19. Chapter Nineteen

When the next case that came along gave them an opportunity to get out of London for a bit, Sherlock jumped at the chance. John had been a little distant and awkward in the days following the conclusion of Callahan’s murder. The detective could only imagine the doctor still felt ashamed and embarrassed about the revelations and wasn’t sure how to act now his flatmate knew that he’d been in an emotionally toxic relationship. A distraction would do them both some good.

A client from Heacham had emailed him with a link to an article from a local newspaper, a woman had fallen to her death while walking along the cliffs in nearby Hunstanton the night before. However, the accompanying email pointed out some strange discrepancies. Firstly: the deceased (34 year old Holly Walters) was a native and knew those cliffs very well. Secondly: the day of the accident was clear, dry and without fog, lessening the likelihood of Ms Walters simply missing her footing and falling to her death.

_‘It could be nothing or it could be murder.’_ Sherlock had decided to investigate and invited John along, even going so far as ringing both the hospital and the Met on his behalf to arrange for a few days leave. The doctor hadn’t even got angry when he found out about the liberties taken, he just blinked, shrugged and went to go pack a few things.

The two of them were currently on a train to the coast, they’d managed to find a free table booth and sat opposite each other. John dug around in his rucksack and pulled out a small bottle of juice that he’d picked up before they left.

“So, the person who told you about this, do they know the woman personally?” The doctor asked as he opened the bottle and took a sip.

“No more than acquaintances, or so he says. If we take him at his word then it was the odd things that he’d noted about the death that caused him to get in contact with me.” Sherlock was looking at the scenery as it whipped past their window. “Usually most people can’t tell the difference between a significant factor and an irrelevant one but I thought it was worth a look.”

“Hmm, well I suppose it’ll be a nice day out if it turns out that she was just drunk or something.” John was too busy looking for his notebook to see the small flick of a smile that crossed the detective’s face. Sherlock was under no illusions that his friend probably suspected his ulterior motives for this trip at the very least, he was just glad that John was going along with it.

The rest of the train ride passed in a companionable silence with Sherlock dipping in and out of his Mind Palace and John writing away. The detective noted that his friend continued to take written records of their cases but he still hadn’t resumed blogging. The excuse of not having enough time had been rolled out on every occasion Sherlock had brought the subject up but he couldn’t shake the feeling that that wasn’t the whole truth of the matter.

When the train pulled into the King’s Lynn station, the pair disembarked and walked out to the main road. There was a cab rank and they climbed into one and directed the driver to take them into Hunstanton, which wasn’t too far away.

“When we get there, I’m going to go to the police station to look at Ms Walters’ file and effects to see if there’s anything to indicate foul play. I want you to go to the morgue to see what the autopsy threw up, or even better, to get a look at the body for yourself.” Sherlock informed his colleague of the plan; he knew the deceased’s body hadn’t been released for burial yet because there was meant to be a coroner’s inquiry on the following Monday.

“That’s fine, but shouldn’t we find some place to drop off our bags rather than lug them around with us?” John asked with a nod to the small hold-all and rucksack besides him on the seat. “It’s the off season so there should be plenty of B&Bs with spare rooms, let me see what I can find.” The doctor pulled out his phone, finding and booking them a twin room that was close enough to everything before giving the driver the address.

When the taxi arrived, the pair of them were met out the front by the proprietor, an elderly woman who ran this small boarding house with her husband. She showed them to their room, handed over the keys and informed them at what time breakfast was served before she left them.

“Not the best but it’s not like we’ll be spending much time in here.” John commented as they walked in, there were two single beds on either side of the small room and a tiny ensuite. John put his rucksack into a small wardrobe, not bothering to unpack properly. “Right, let’s get to work then. Text me when you’re done and I’ll do the same.”

The two parted company and Sherlock headed for the local police station. It took some time and a considerable amount of charm and false flattery of the aging Chief Inspector but the detective was finally allowed to read the incident report and look at the personal effects. The last confirmed sighting of Holly Walters had been on Friday afternoon when she left the law offices where she worked as a legal secretary.

She lived alone and probably would not have been reported missing until Monday when she failed to turn up for work. However, as it was, a man was walking his dog along the beach near the cliffs when he spotted her red coat on the rocks. This was at shortly before 8 pm, luckily the tide had yet to come in or the body would have been carried out to sea.

The time of death had been placed no more than two hours after she was last seen. It was still light at that time so it wasn’t that Holly had tripped and stumbled in the dark. She was known to enjoy walks to the cliff, especially when she needed to clear her head. There was no history of depression but the coroner had ordered an inquiry to try and determine if the cause of death was an accident or suicide _‘or murder.’_

:: No alcohol or drugs in the bloodstream. HW was approx. seven weeks pregnant according to the autopsy report. – JW ::

:: Interesting. We need to find a friend to speak to, find out if she had a boyfriend. – SH ::

Sherlock had already checked who the police had down as her next of kin, but it was an older sister who lived in Dorset. That wasn’t conclusive that she didn’t have a boyfriend, but it wasn’t that she did either. The detective finished with the report and went to the evidence locker, the officer was expecting him and had pulled Ms Walters’ belongings out already for inspection.

Sherlock pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the handbag. It was a designer handbag, something that shouldn’t have been within a legal secretary’s budget. _‘Gift from our unknown man?’_ There were some makeup items, a hairbrush, a spare pair of flat shoes and other things that would be expected in an average handbag. Her purse and mobile had been logged separately.

Her purse contained a small amount in cash and numerous credit cards. _‘Was she living beyond her means? Debts plus an unplanned pregnancy could be a reasonable motive for suicide.’_ However, Sherlock found a small photograph hidden between a Costa loyalty card and an organ donation card. It was of a smartly dressed man standing at a lectern, giving some sort of talk, lecture or even possibly a press conference.

On a hunch, Sherlock took his phone out and looked up the law practice that Holly worked for. The man in the picture was Jonathan Price, a specialist solicitor in divorce and family law. _‘Married with children according to his biography. If he was having an affair with our deceased and found out she was pregnant, that could be a motive to silence her.’_ The detective nearly groaned out loud, messy love entanglements like this were tedious at best, but seeing as they were already investigating, they might as well see it through.

When Sherlock picked up the mobile, he was pleased to note it wasn’t one with a thumb print lock. It was a four digit-pin so he tried Holly’s date of birth, which was incorrect. A quick check on Facebook and he put in Mr Price’s but again, incorrect. Sherlock chewed on his lip before a final idea came to him, he checked her LinkedIn page to see when she first started working for Price and entered in that date. He smiled in satisfaction as the phone unlocked. _‘You can count on people choosing to base their passwords on sentiment rather than security.’_

The tone of the SMS messages passing between Mr Price and Ms Walters was nothing but professional, the receiving and confirming of instructions, reminders of meetings and the organising of travel and accommodation. The WhatsApp messages were another matter entirely, giving Sherlock all the evidence he needed of a long standing affair. In fact, Holly had sent him a message at 6:15pm last night asking Jonathan to meet her urgently at the cliffs.

:: You done at the morgue? Our victim was having an affair with her boss and I’m going to pay him a visit. – SH ::

:: Nearly. Just got access to the body and noticed some atypical bruising that I want to look a bit closer at first, I’ll meet you there when I can. – JW ::

By now it was Saturday afternoon, so the most logical place to find Jonathan Price would be at his home address. Sherlock decided against filling in the local police on his findings, lest they scare his suspect off before he got a chance to speak to him. The detective thanked them for their indulgence and hopped into a taxi.

When Sherlock knocked on the front door of the very picturesque townhouse, it was answered by a woman who the detective knew by deduction as being Mr Price’s wife.

“Hello there, I’m here to speak to Jonathan Price, it’s regarding the death of an employee of his, Holly Walters?” Ever since the failed bluff with Dr Chen, Sherlock was much more careful about possibly introducing an alias until he had some idea whether he’d been recognised or not.

“I’m his wife, Aimee Price. What’s this about? We’ve already spoken to the pol-” The woman was interrupted when a teary voice called from farther inside. 

“Let them in, Aims, I don’t mind answering more questions, anything to help Holly.” Mrs Price wasn’t happy about it but stood aside to let Sherlock in. He headed into the living room and saw a middle aged man sitting on the couch, there was a waste paper bin on the floor next to him that was filled with used tissues. “Hello, I’m Jonathan Price, as you might have gathered. I’d shake your hand but I don’t think that would be very sanitary right now.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see me at this difficult time.” Sherlock sat down in a chair by the couch, taking in the man’s appearance. _‘Red eyes, blotchy face: Clearly has been openly crying. He is either a very good actor or he’s genuinely upset.’_ “I’m with the coroner’s office, I’m just gathering some information in anticipation for the inquest. Can you tell me how Ms Walters was when she left your offices yesterday?”

“She seemed fine, she said she’d see me Monday, like she does every Friday.” Jonathan sniffled again, pulling another tissue out of the box. “We’ve worked together for over five years; I just can’t believe she’s gone.” The detective wanted to bring up the affair, but he needed to get Mrs Price to leave the room first. She’d been hovering near the couch since he’d come in. Sherlock put his hand in his pocket and typed a blind message to John.

:: When you get to Price’s, I need you to distract his wife. Pretend to be a distraught friend of Holly’s, tears if you’ve got them. – SH ::

“Mr Price, one of the things that the coroner will be trying to determine is whether or not Ms Walters’ fall was an accident or not. Seeing as you’ve known her for so long, can you tell me if she ever appeared depressed, anxious or even just unusually pensive?”

“Oh no, she always seemed to be bright and smiling. I know that you are implying that she might have jumped but I don’t think so.” The solicitor sighed with a shake of his head, staring into the middle distance as he spoke again. “I thought it was some sort of prank when I found out. I was having a meal with an old law partner of mine when the police came to find me, they needed me to identify the body because Holly didn’t have anyone else. They’d been trying to contact me but I’d left my phone at home that morning and hadn’t even realised it.” 

There came a sudden knock on the door and Jonathan looked over to his wife, who turned to go and answer it. Sherlock waited until he heard the door open and the sound of voices, leaning forward ready to press his suspect with all the flair he possessed.


	20. Chapter Twenty

John hated it when Sherlock told him to distract people, he was never very good at making things up on the fly. Pair that with his terrible acting skills and he usually became the distraction itself, much like a jester in a royal court. Luckily it turned out their client was a technician at the morgue, the information he provided would work as a believable cover story, couple that with genuine feelings and he should be ok. The door opened to reveal a woman, his target he figured.

“I’m so sorry, I just heard, are you ok?” John blurted out, able to use his natural empathy to his advantage. The woman blinked at him confused, the doctor couldn’t help noticing that she was an attractive woman. She had long auburn hair, curves in the right places and an air of independence and self assurance. She reminded him of Sarah actually, his former colleague.

“I’m fine, thank you… but do I even know you?” Mrs Price looked bemused, but John’s sympathetic approach had disarmed her somewhat. John looked down at his feet, feeling a blush coming to his cheeks.

“We’ve never met… not officially. But your husband sorted out access to my kids after my divorce, I remember the secretary and I just felt I had to come by and offer my condolences. Sorry, I know this is a little creepy.” John shifted his feet and glanced upwards from beneath his fringe that had fallen across his eyes.

“I see, no, it’s not creepy. Don’t worry. Thank you for coming.” Mrs Price’s face had fallen into a gentle smile, she glanced over her shoulder towards the living room. “Jonathan is just with someone now but I’ll be sure to tell him you dropped by, Mr -?” Whatever the doctor was about to say was interrupted by crashing and a shout.

“How dare you even suggest that I have anything to do with Holly’s death?! Get out of my house!” John watched as Mr Price dragged Sherlock from the living room by his lapels. The detective was holding a hand over his cheek and looked a little dazed. When the solicitor threw him out the door, Sherlock stumbled on the steps but John was able to catch and steady him, the front door slamming so hard that the windows rattled in their frames.

The doctor in John wanted to ask his friend if he was alright but he had the presence of mind to drag Sherlock away so they were out of the view of the Prices’ house.

“Here, let me have a look at that.” John pulled Sherlock’s hand away from his face, revealing a scrape and his rapidly swelling cheek. “Ouch, take it Mr Price didn’t like you bringing up the affair and accusing him of murder?”

“Not really. Lucky shot though, he threw a box of tissues at me first, I’d just ducked that and he punched me.” Sherlock was sulking, he didn’t like being bested at anything. _‘He’s going to be in a foul mood all day now. Lovely.’_ “He claims to have an alibi, we’ll need to check that out.” John had waved down a passing taxi and bundled them in.

“We can do that later; I’ve got a first aid kit back at the B&B so I can sort out your face.” John gave the driver the address and raised his hand to stop Sherlock from protesting. “Don’t argue, it won’t take long and it’ll give us a chance to share what we’ve learnt.”

They got back to their room and John pushed Sherlock into the tiny bathroom, he let the sink start filling with water while he grabbed the kit. When the doctor came back, the detective was sitting on the closed lid of the loo, grumpy and grumbling to himself. John picked up a small flannel and dipped it into the warm water.

“Cause of death was a broken neck, death was instantaneous. Our anonymous tipster is a lab tech. He wasn’t able to elaborate any more on why he thought the death was fishy, just called it a gut instinct.” John gently cleaned the scrape, getting a hiss from Sherlock. “He wasn’t aware of a boyfriend; said she didn’t even seem to have any friends outside of work.”

“Mr Price is without doubt her lover and was the father of her child. After speaking with him, I can believe that he did love Holly. She could have been pressing him to admit the affair and he killed her in a moment of madness.” Sherlock mused before he drew away, growling sharply because John had dabbed his face with antiseptic. “Careful! That stings!”

“It’s supposed to sting, you wimp, and don’t snap at me just because you’re annoyed that a lawyer managed to clock you.” John replied sullenly as he continued, he tried not to provoke Sherlock when he was in these moods but couldn’t help defending himself at times.

“Well don’t punish me for the fact I got in the way of you chatting up Aimee Price then!” The detective spat out, spotting John’s face frowning in confusion. “Don’t give me that look! You were drooling over her so much that I thought you’d both drown!”

“I wasn’t flirting, I was distracting her, like you asked me to.” John picked up a small tube to apply a thin layer of cream over the graze. “But keep pushing, see where it gets you.” Despite the increasing heat in his words, his hands remained gentle.

“Why? Are you finally going to snap and tell me to shove it for good?” Sherlock was on a roll; his claws were out, ready to tear into anyone in his path, leaving nothing but blood and destruction in his wake.

“No.” John managed to get that word out from between gritted teeth, he put the cap back on the tube and washed his hands. _‘I need to get away from him before either of us says something we’ll regret.’_ He closed the kit and left the bathroom to put it back in his rucksack, but Sherlock followed him.

“Why not then? Even the most unsophisticated of invertebrates has a sense of self-preservation. Survival of the fittest will dictate that those creatures who don’t protect themselves will perish and fail to pass along their inferior genes.” Sherlock was right behind John as the doctor grabbed a local guidebook from the table beside the bed. “Maybe it is a good job that I interrupted the love-in with Mrs Price then, we wouldn’t want to saddle some poor child with half of your already pathetic and lacking gen-”

“SHUT UP!” John threw the book across the room where it hit the wall. Sherlock smirked at provoking a reaction, thinking he was finally getting the fight he was spoiling for. John took a steadying inhale. “You can insult me from here back to Afghanistan if you want to but you’ll never drive me away for good. I’m still going to be the one to watch your back and patch you up. So, you’re better off not wasting your breath.” There was silence for a beat or two.

“But that’s insanity, why would anyone put up with that? Why would you?” The detective was blinking at him, taken aback and his rage subsiding. The ex-soldier went and picked up the guide from the floor, checking to see if he’d ripped any pages, before putting it in his pocket. 

“Because London needs Sherlock Holmes… and so do I. So, let me do the one thing I’m better at than you…” John tossed the keys to Sherlock, opening the door to their room. At Sherlock’s questioning look, he continued. “Taking care of the world’s only consulting detective... You go check Price’s alibi, I’m gonna look at the cliffs and where the body was found. I know it’s dark but I’ve got a torch.”

A little later and John was on the beach, it was a cold night and he shivered, heading to the base of the cliffs. He couldn’t get as close to the spot where the body was found as he’d like because the tide had already cut the area off. The doctor looked at the collection of rocks and took his phone out to review the photos he’d taken of Holly Walters.

Most of her injuries were readily explained by the fall, but he’d noticed fresh bruising and redness on her cheek. John frowned as he looked between the photo and the cliff face, wondering if she’d caught it on the way down. _‘It’s around the same place as Price hit Sherlock earlier.’_ He thought idly to himself before a light went off in his head. _‘Of course!’_

:: See this picture of HW’s face? Someone slapped her – hard - just before she died. - JW ::

:: Well it wasn’t Jonathan Price. Restaurant owner confirmed he was there from when he shut the office till the police picked him up to ID the body. – SH ::

:: Wait. He said he left his phone at home. But Holly asked him to meet her at the cliff. – SH ::

:: So, who met her and slapped her? Mrs Price? Angry wife sees texts and goes to confront the other woman. It’s happened before. - JW ::

:: Likely. Now how do we prove it? Meet you at the top of the cliffs. – SH ::

John followed the path from the beach up to the cliff, the slight incline and distance warming his muscles against the bite of the wind. He found Sherlock already up there, he was kneeling and looking at some footprints in the sandy ground through his magnifier.

“I have two sets of women’s boot prints. These were Ms Walters’.” The detective pointed to the set closer to the edge. “You can see here that she stumbled, probably when she was slapped, then you can see the ground slipped here and she fell.” John felt his heart jump into his throat when Sherlock got very close to the overhang.

“Alright, don’t need to recreate the scene that thoroughly, mate!” He grabbed Sherlock by the arm and dragged him back. “Especially when you’ve just pointed out that the ground can give way at the edges.” Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes at him but obediently stepped away. He knelt down by the tracks again and measured the second pair with a tape measure.

“Size 5. We’ll have to see what size Aimee Price is…” Sherlock murmured to himself, standing up and stealing John’s torch to try and look for more evidence. “It might be enough to make her confess but I’d feel better if I had something more concrete to tie her to the crime.” John made an agreeing noise as he did a slow turn to give the area the benefit of a second set of eyes.

“Ooh, Sherlock! Look over there!” The doctor pointed towards a line of takeaways, fluorescent lighting bright even from the murky darkness of the cliffside.

“If you’re hungry, John, then don’t let me stop you. I’ll just be here, searching for evidence.” Sherlock spoke in a condescending tone with a wave of his arm as he went back to looking around.

“Ha freaking ha. No, dickhead, there’s CCTV cameras over there and if Mrs Price was coming straight from her place to the cliffs then there’s a good chance those takeaways caught her on tape.” John explained bad-temperedly, folding his arms over his chest when the detective turned back to him.

“That’s… actually a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that? Good thing I pickpocketed an ID badge from one of the local officers earlier.” Sherlock muttered in begrudging surprise, striding towards the nearest one with John jogging behind him. _‘And while he’s looking over the tapes, I can get some fish and chips.’_ He thought as his stomach growled in agreement.

It was late when the pair of them got back to their room. They’d managed to find footage of Aimee Price walking towards the cliff at half 6pm on Friday. They presented everything to the police: the affair and subsequent pregnancy, the phone message placing Holly on the cliff, the fact Mr Price had left his mobile at home and the CCTV evidence. A warrant was issued and Mrs Aimee Price was arrested on suspicion of murder.

“It was probably manslaughter, rather than murder.” John mumbled as he sorted some nightclothes from his rucksack. It was way too late to head back to London, and they’d already paid for the room anyway. “You said Ms Walters stumbled from being hit and the ground crumbled. Aimee Price didn’t intend to kill her.”

“Yes, but you do have to be alert to the consequences of striking someone in the vicinity and direction of a sheer drop. Mrs Price also could have notified the authorities straight away, it wouldn’t have saved the victim but it would have counted towards any charge and sentence.” Sherlock was already in the bathroom, having just finished brushing his teeth.

John shrugged at him; he could see both sides. Once the doctor had changed his clothes and done his own teeth, he put the bedside lamp on and sat cross legged on the bed with his notebook on his lap to write up the conclusion of the case.

“About earlier… I said some very uncalled for and untrue things.” Sherlock was lying on his own bed with his hands steepled, John had actually thought he was in his Mind Palace but apparently not.

“It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it. I know better than to take any notice of what you say when you’re in one of those moods and it’s not like I’ve never said something horrible in the heat of the moment myself.” John looked up from his writing, he could just make out the detective’s outline but not his expression. “Just try not to blame me next time you get yourself punched in the face.”


	21. Chapter Twenty One

Sherlock sighed as he checked the last room in the unlet office building. This one was a bust too, evidence of their smugglers using it was nowhere to be found, not even for storage from the looks of it. He hoped John was having better luck in the building he was checking, they needed to find which of the structures that the gang was using as their base of operations and soon. 

It had taken a few days of hacking/lurking around the right areas of the internet but it had paid off. There was a shipment of human organs hitting the docks in three days’ time, listed on the manifest as imported Parma ham. The cargo would be packed on to a small refrigerated truck, and according to their information, brought to this industrial estate to be dissipated quickly to the backstreet clinics for individual buyers. The time between arrival and departure would be less than ninety minutes.

This case had come to his attention after John heard of a spate of patients being admitted with serious complications due to unlicensed transplant surgery while working at the UCH. After the sixth case, and third death, the doctor had had enough. He’d come home from his shift, explained to Sherlock everything he knew and asked for his help.

The detective had started looking into the situation immediately, it seemed unregistered and untested donor organs were being brought in from abroad to feed the black market demand. Patients on the waiting lists were desperate, they and their families willing to pay obscene amounts for the chance at survival. It was a vile trade that preyed on people’s despair and needed to be stopped, never mind the irresistible inference that not many of these organs had been sourced ethically – or legally for that matter. 

The operation had turned out to be a lot more sophisticated than the pair had initially expected, the short turnaround time between the organs being imported and distributed would make it difficult to catch them in the act. The plan was to find the HQ and set up hidden cameras and listening devices so they could gather evidence to present to the police and catch as many of the gang as possible. Sherlock was just jogging down the stairs when his phone buzzed with a message from John.

:: Vc ::

The detective paused with a frown at the brief message. _‘VC? …Vatican Cameos!’_ A chill ran down his spine as he sprang into action, running down the remaining steps as he called Greg.

“Lestrade! I need back up at the Cannonade industrial estate right now, John’s in trouble!” Sherlock hung up as he bashed through a fire door. He sprinted diagonally across the concrete forecourt towards the building that John had been scouting last. 

As he got nearer, Sherlock caught a brief flash of movement in the reflection in the glass of one of the third floor offices. Two people appeared to be grappling with each other before John came flying through the window in a shower of shards. There was a scream, and Sherlock honestly had no idea which of them it came from as his body locked up in horror.

The doctor hit the ground hard with the most sickening thud Sherlock had ever heard. He felt bile rising in his throat, his ears full of white noise as he finally made his leaden legs move again. The detective threw himself down on his knees next to John’s still body, not noticing the glass cutting his shins as he reached his shaking hand to hover over his friend’s face and chest before pressing his fingers to his neck to feel for a pulse, he was still alive.

“Oh God, John! What do I do? Please, what do I do? Tell me!” Sherlock blinked hard as his voice squeaked out past the lump in his throat. _‘You know what to do, you idiot! Stop panicking! Put your emotions aside!’_ He slapped himself sharply across the face, taking his terror and shoving it into a hastily erected broom cupboard marked ‘LATER’ in his Mind Palace and locking it tightly.

Feeling calmer, if not completely removed from the situation, he grabbed his phone and called for an ambulance. He put the operator on speakerphone and described John’s injuries to her, moving to hold his head completely steady. John began to come around, groaning in pain and trying to sit up.

“Don’t move, John, you need to stay totally still. Lestrade and an ambulance are on their way. Don’t worry, you’re going to be absolutely fine.” Sherlock looked down at his flatmate’s face, not sure who he was reassuring with his words, probably the both of them.

“Sher-?” John slurred, cracking his eyes open fractionally. He gasped as he presumably remembered what happened and again tried to sit up. “Where’s he?” John’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for his assailant. Sherlock could hear the sirens; it was too soon for the paramedics so he figured that it must be the police.

“He’s not here, don’t worry, you’re safe, I won’t let him hurt you anymore. The police will get him, I will help once I know you are ok.” The detective heard the sounds of running footsteps, then Greg’s voice swearing behind him before ordering his men to secure the building and surrounding area. The Inspector knelt down, brushing the glass gently off of John’s body before covering him with his coat to keep him warm and help prevent shock.

“You’ve called an ambulance?” Lestrade asked under his breath, Sherlock gave a curt nod. “John? John, can you tell me where it hurts? Can you feel your legs?” The former soldier was bleeding from the back of his head, plus his left knee was at a slightly unnatural angle and he had several cuts from the glass. Of course, that was only what could be seen on the surface.

“I can feel everything …and everything hurts.” John’s words were slurred slightly but he was quite alert. He winced as he tried to take a deep breath. “Skull feels like it’s caving in, it’s hard to breathe, knee’s sore, skin’s on fire… I’d found the storage freezers but there was a security guard… he saw me but I hid… I was… cornered… tried to make a break for… it. We fought.” It was obvious that it was becoming increasingly painful for John to speak so Sherlock shushed him.

“It’s fine, just breathe. You can tell us later when you’re patched up and full of lovely opiates… Though that might adversely affect the reliability of your testimony.” The weak attempt at a joke was accompanied by a strained smile, but the effort at levity was appreciated judging by the look in the doctor’s eyes.

“M’Tired…” John admitted, his eyelids beginning to flutter, Sherlock tapped his fingertips firmly against his cheeks while he kept hold of his head. The ambulance had just pulled into the lot and Greg got to his feet to go and meet them, planning to fill them in as they rushed over.

“I know you are, John, but you can’t go to sleep just yet. If you do insist on closing your eyes then I’m going to press on your injured knee to wake you up.” Sherlock tried to keep his tone haughty, as if they were talking about the detective setting fire to one of John’s jumpers because his flatmate had thrown out an experiment to make room for the milk.

“Bit not good, Sherlock.” His friend huffed and muttered under his breath. The paramedics arrived and started working on John, but Sherlock kept his position up by the doctor’s head while they hooked him up to a heart monitor, oximeter and put an IV in.

“Well, you know me. The ends justify the means, remember?” Sherlock answered before he felt a crash of comprehension threatening to rip his mind apart. “Oh God, John, I- I finally understand, oh God, I’m so sorry!” The DI gently pulled Sherlock back as the paramedics fitted John with a neck collar and backboard. They transferred him to a stretcher and rushed him to the waiting ambulance.

Later and Sherlock was in a relatives’ waiting room, he wasn’t sure how he’d got to the hospital. Did he ride with John? Did Lestrade give him a lift? Had he spoken to the doctors yet? Had someone informed them of John’s medical history? Speaking of the Detective Inspector, he arrived and pushed open the door with his hip because his hands were full carrying two paper cups.

“Here, I got you a tea. I put double your normal amount of sugar in it.” Greg told the detective, passing the drink over. “The security guard had fled the estate by the time we got there but every officer in the Met is looking for him. The Doc is one of ours and we look after our own.” Sherlock made a small noise of acknowledgement as he blew on his drink and took a sip.

“Well I can’t help you with an ID, my focus was entirely on John, the guard could have tap danced past me twice and I wouldn’t have noticed.” Sherlock grimaced at the tea as if it had done him a personal wrong. _‘Turns out John was right, there is actually such thing as too much sugar. I feel like I should brush my teeth.’_

“Don’t worry about that, street CCTV caught him so we know who we are looking for.” Lestrade pulled out a sandwich he’d also purchased at the hospital café. “Don’t suppose I can convince you to eat half of this?” He asked, more in hope than expectation. Greg got precisely the look he was anticipating but the door opened before he could answer.

“Hello there, I’m Dr Fennel.” An older woman with a full head of silver hair walked into the room and closed the door behind her, she was carrying a clipboard and checked it before speaking again. “I have a Sherlock Holmes down as Dr Watson’s next of kin, is that one of you gentleman?” The detective was so surprised at discovering John had put his name down as his emergency contact that he forgot how to speak and just raised a hand instead.

“Ah, good. Dr Watson has been remarkably lucky considering the height he fell from. He has a moderate concussion but no bleeding on the brain, no spinal injuries either. He has broken eight ribs though, some more than once. His left knee was sprained not broken so we’ve strapped it for now. He has a small internal bleed from his kidney but we are monitoring that carefully in the hopes we don’t have to intervene surgically. Finally, he has numerous lacerations from the glass but only three on his back required stitches.” The doctor delivered her news with a small smile, probably pleased to be giving good news rather than bad.

“So, he should be alright, then?” The DI asked, a grin breaking out over his face when Dr Fennel nodded in confirmation. “Oh, that’s brilliant news! I know he’s not walking out of here anytime soon but still… everyone in the precinct will be happy to hear that.” Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, knocking him out of the relieved fog that he’d slipped in to.

“May I see him, please?” The detective asked and the doctor motioned for him to follow her. He put the drink in his hand down on the table and went after her with Greg in tow. Dr Fennel led them to the Intensive Care Ward and over to one of the bays at the end that had the curtain drawn around it.

“We plan to keep him here for observation until we’re certain the kidney bleed has stopped, then we’ll have him admitted to one of the normal wards for the remainder of his stay.” She told them in a slightly lowered tone as she opened the curtains. John was seemingly sleeping; he was covered in wires and tubes that Sherlock identified automatically as his eyes scanned his friend.

_‘Heart, blood pressure and oxygen monitors, IV fluids, morphine syringe driver, abdominal drain, catheter.’_ John’s head wound was bandaged and his knee was in a brace. He was bare chested, showing black/purple bruising covering his entire torso. Sherlock found himself biting his lip hard at seeing the former soldier looking so broken and vulnerable.

“I’m going to head out and update the Yard and everyone with what we know, you gonna be alright here?” Greg’s hand was on the detective’s shoulder again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock just nodded in answer, approaching the bed to stand beside it. The DI was reluctant to leave Sherlock like that but he eventually walked away.

Sherlock was still for a few moments before he pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. He hovered his hand over John’s for a beat or two before covering it and giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. Sherlock could feel the door to the ‘LATER’ cupboard opening and he supressed a shudder as the fear washed over him again.

“I thought you were dead… you hit the ground _so_ hard and you weren’t moving. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. Not when I was in deep cover in Russia. Or even when I was captured in Serbia.” Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on to John’s chest, watching the steady rise and fall and trying to take comfort from it. 

“If this is even half of what you felt when I jumped then I’ll never be able to say sorry enough… and you were thrown out that window! You didn’t want to fall, didn’t want me to see something like that! But that’s what I put you through _on purpose_.” The detective wiped the moisture from his eyes and glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed, however no one was paying any attention to them.

“I didn’t realise what I was asking you to forgive when I first came back. You were right, I didn’t get it. At all. But that split second when I thought you were lying dead in front of me, facing the prospect of the rest of my life without you in it. I got it then. I’d be physically living… but not alive.” Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled, two tears tracing his cheeks when he blinked rapidly. “But you lived that for two years. I don’t deserve your forgiveness… I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t cry, Sherlock.” John’s voice was low and slightly slurred. He struggled to focus his eyes, being heavily dosed up with painkillers. But he turned his hand over under Sherlock’s so he could squeeze it back. The detective dragged the sleeve of his free arm over his eyes, cheeks reddening in embarrassment as he coughed.

“How much of that did you hear?” He asked, getting a drugged up euphoric grin in reply, making Sherlock give an exaggerated groan in response. “What price for your silence? Hobnobs?”

“Yes… and the good tea…” John agreed in a drowsy drawl, the detective staying quiet in the hopes the doctor would fall back to sleep. He’d almost dropped off when John jerked awake for a moment and stared as if checking he was still there; Sherlock squeezed the hand in his to reassure him. _‘Yes, I’m right here. I’ll never willingly leave you again.’_


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Reference to Mistreatment Whilst Captured.

John sighed in boredom, staring out the window of the ward. Not that the hospital had a good view, all he could see was the carpark and part of the London skyline. It had been four days since he’d been thrown through the window at the industrial estate. His doctor didn’t want to let him go too soon as an abdominal knock could start his kidney bleeding internally again.

Not that John could actually move around much, eight broken ribs plus more bruises than any one person should have at once meant even shifting slightly was agony. Sherlock had brought him some things from home to occupy him, his laptop, his notebook plus some other books. The detective was currently down at New Scotland Yard, he was briefing a team on the information they’d gathered on the organ trafficking gang.

The security guard had been caught the day after the incident but he’d already alerted the higher ups so the expected shipment of organs didn’t come in on the ship as planned. No one had gone to the estate either, despite covert surveillance. The gang was likely to go to ground and lay low for a while before trying to set back up their trade routes, under the radar. 

John hoped they would close down the backstreet clinics and charge the dodgy surgeons. They weren’t actually doctors a lot of the time, having had their licenses to practice revoked for one reason or another. There was also an education campaign being launched, aimed at those on the donor transplant lists and their families, explaining the risks inherent in buying an organ off the black market to hopefully cut off the demand at the source.

The sound of the double doors of the ward opening made John look around, smiling when Sherlock strode over to him, carrying a small wicker basket. The detective grinned back at him and placed the basket on the edge of the bed.

“I swung by Baker Street on my way here, Mrs Hudson has been stress baking again. There’s enough scones and biscuits in here for the entire ward. Plus, three thermos flasks of your favourite tea.” Sherlock opened the basket and tilted it slightly to show the contents.

“Oh God love her!” _‘And so do I.’_ “You have told her that I’m fine and I’ll be home in a few days, right?” John asked as he reached out for one of the flasks with a wince, he was desperate for a decent cup of tea. The catering staff here seemed too terrified to give him anything after Sherlock had enquired into their entire supply line, looking for possible cross contamination with coconuts or horses.

“Don’t stretch! I’ll get it!” Sherlock plucked the thermos out, unscrewing the cup at the top and setting it down on the wheeled bed table. “She knows, she just wants you back as soon as possible.” He filled the cup with tea, putting the lid back on and moving the table so John could reach.

“Do you think if I promised to stay on the couch and not move, they’d let me out early?” The doctor asked as he blew on his tea and took a sip with a noise of satisfaction. Sherlock had pulled up his chair, sinking into it and pulling out his phone to check his emails.

“No, because we all know you’d break that promise within five minutes, loudly insisting that you were fine and not an invalid.” The detective finished and put the phone away. “Lots of people at the Met asked me to wish you well for them, I didn’t get names, irrelevant, easier to assume it was everyone in the building, you’re very popular.” John laughed at that with a shake of his head, glancing at the number of cards on the cabinet by his bed.

“I’ll tell you what I am… bored out of my mind. It wasn’t so bad the first couple of days as the morphine pretty much made me sleep 90% of the time and the other 10% was funny because I was off my face.” John half grumbled as he used the remote to adjust the head of his bed.

“Yes, your insistence that you’d seen Wolverine’s skeleton in one of the storage freezers did make Lestrade’s taking of your witness statement quite amusing.” Sherlock glanced pointedly at the laptop next to his friend on the bed. “You could type up and blog some of our latest cases if you’re that bored, should pass the time.”

“Ah, yeah… I could do that, I suppose.” John’s lacklustre response didn’t go unnoticed, he tried not to look up when he saw Sherlock lean forward in his peripheral vision, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled together.

“But clearly, you won’t for some unknown reason. You can’t blame lack of time anymore, due to this unfortunate incident, you’re likely to have an abundance of free time for some weeks.” The grey eyes were piercing into John’s lowered face, trying to pull the answer out of his pores. “You still write up the cases for your own records. So why won’t you blog about them?”

“And why are you so insistent that I do? I thought you hated my writing?” The doctor blurted out as he rolled the seam of his blanket in his fingers anxiously. “You always went on about how it was romantic drivel, my titles were terrible and I always missed out all the important sciency bits… and I very much doubt my storytelling abilities have improved in the interim.” John risked a glance upwards; Sherlock was staring at him with widened eyes, his lips slightly parted in apparent shock.

“ _I’m_ the reason you refuse to blog cases?” The detective normally jumped down the throat of anyone who stated the obvious like that. _‘Looks like I knocked his Mind Palace offline for a minute there.’_ “Honestly, John, I didn’t realise you’d taken my criticism so much to heart, mostly because it didn’t stop you when I said it originally.” Sherlock sat up a little straighter, looking a touch pink and chastened.

“Yeah, well then you were gone and I couldn’t help thinking about the fact you didn’t like my blog very much, not just the style but the fact I put little details of your eccentricities on it and sometimes people who read it were mean about them.” John was not comfortable with having this conversation, that was why he always insisted on the ‘no time’ excuse. Anything so he didn’t have to lay out how guilty and pathetic he felt for Sherlock to know and see.

“I don’t need to blog the cases, as you said, I write them up for my own pleasure and that’s enough, that’s fine. It’s all fine. Fine.” The doctor’s voice was becoming quieter and quieter and he folded in on himself as he spoke, putting pressure on his still very tender ribs and torso. John heard a rustle of cloth and suddenly there were gentle hands on his shoulders, coaxing him to uncurl and lay back.

“Easy now…” Sherlock was standing at the edge of the bed, pulling the pillow back up with one hand and gently setting his friend back with the other. Their eyes met and John read the warmth, guilt and exasperation before the detective opened his mouth again. “Really, if I’d seriously hated your blog, I’d have deleted it from the internet… and while I bemoan the literary tastes of the general public, I can’t deny a good many cases came to us from the blog, thanks to the increased exposure.”

“Oh.” John flushed a little in embarrassment at realising he had misinterpreted events and his fears had been unfounded. “I’ll see if I feel like posting an update tomorrow, I’m feeling a little washed out now.” Sherlock nodded silently before dragging the basket closer and pulling out a tub of scones.

“Probably low blood sugar. Eat these while I take the other one to the nurses’ station.” The detective dropped the tupperware box on John’s lap, whirling on his heels and striding over to the ward desks. The sounds of delighted surprise floated back over to him as the doctor opened his tub and pulled out one of the pastries, biting into it as Sherlock rejoined him.

“Lovely, just wish I had some jam to go with it.” John commented, raising a curious eyebrow at his friend who grinned at him cheekily. Sherlock reached a hand into the pocket of his signature coat and turned it out to reveal it was full of individual foil servings of different flavoured jams and preserves. A huge laugh made John clamp both hands to his ribs with a gasp and a deep wince. “Where the hell did you swipe them from?”

“The canteen at New Scotland Yard, I didn’t really steal them either. Sally saw me but she guessed they were for you and let me get away with it.” Sherlock put them all on the table with a small butter knife before sinking back in his chair. “So what should we talk about now?”

“What happened while you were abroad?” John blinked in surprise, as if it wasn’t actually his own mouth that had just produced those words. He coughed and blushed. “Sorry, not sure where that came from… but I guess I have been curious. At times I’ve sorta implied it was a massive holiday for you when I know it wasn’t… and I’m sorry I haven’t asked before now.” Sherlock was watching him carefully, as if assessing whether he actually wanted to know or not.

“I can’t go too much into specifics due to national security… but I can give you the broad strokes, if you’re truly interested?” The detective shuffled his chair a little closer when John nodded at him, lowering his voice so anyone passing by wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop. 

“I spent the first two months in a data room at MI6 while a new identity was created to get me on to the continent. Using the information Moriarty had given us, we already had a lead on a cell in Paris that gave us a starting point.” The doctor forgot about his food, his tea, even the pain, his entire attention on Sherlock.

“Once we’d dismantled that one, it was only a small outpost, we gained more intelligence that then had to be analysed. Things we already knew were pointing to Russia where Moriarty had left a much more substantial footprint. These were much more cautious operatives, I had to go into deep cover for weeks just to get a foot in the door. It was draining, having to maintain the façade constantly and not let it drop.” The tone of voice would have told John that, without it being explicitly stated, exhaustion radiating from Sherlock as he recalled that time.

“It was isolating too. For a long time, I was in a holding pattern, waiting for the signal to start leaving backdoors in the system for outside agents. I had to keep track of every innocuous detail or anecdote I told, to make sure the story stayed consistent. I became an expert on Russian soap operas, it gave me something to chat about with the others.” Sherlock smiled at watching John biting his lip to stop from laughing, knowing how excruciating that would have been for the genius.

“When I finally got the go ahead, we blew open that cell four weeks later. Some of Moriarty’s most trusted generals were taken down with that one. It was a job well done.” There was a small satisfied nod with a smile of pride on his lips. “I went into another data room for a few weeks to analyse the new information. It took a while to stop thinking in Russian and I took immense pleasure in deleting all that superfluous tv data. Next stop was South America.”

“It’s probably no surprise to you that the criminal underworld is backed by drug and blood money. There’s no way we could dismantle the network without cutting off the flow of funds. We must have shut down five cocaine factories in Venezuela and Colombia alone.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to John’s face. “Spent some time in Afghanistan too for the same reason.” The former soldier nodded slowly.

“Still say it’s the most beautiful country I’ve ever been to. Wish I had taken more time to appreciate it while I could.” John saw an understanding flick at the corner of the detective’s mouth, neither of them had been able to bask in the pleasure of the scenery on either of their campaigns abroad.

“In a weird way, being in the Afghan desert made me feel closer to you than I’d been in a year. Just knowing that you’d walked the same ground years earlier eased my mind. In fact, I recognised a few places from the little you’d told me of your tours.” John couldn’t help the smile that jumped to his face at hearing that, touched that Sherlock had been thinking of him. “Eastern Europe was a massive shock to the system after all that heat though.” The detective shivered dramatically.

“There was a large connection between Moriarty’s network and the former Yugoslav states. I’m sure you noticed that theme during the bomb debacle. I got set up in Bosnia initially and started nosing around carefully. There were at least three cells in this area and we wanted to take them all down without alerting the others. The first two went smoothly. The third… did not.” Sherlock’s body language started to close off and his eyes darkened.

“I was in Serbia when my identity was compromised by a careless contact and I was captured. I was imprisoned for eighteen days before the cell was taken down. They had interrogated me for information: starved me, flogged me etc. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of the sorts of methods that can be employed by enemy operatives.” John nodded grimly, dropping his hand over Sherlock’s where it rested on the bed, squeezing it.

“I did a lot of indoor analyst work for the next couple of weeks while I recovered. The next area of focus was the Far East. There was a surprisingly large cell in Japan, it mostly focused on technological espionage. Keeping track of advancements and working out how to use them for their own illicit purposes. I was almost able to take the whole thing down from the confines of my tiny cardboard apartment.” Sherlock’s sneer at the memory of that cramped little flat made John giggle.

“Korea was next, both North and South. That was a fraught time, trying to stay unnoticed by both the cells and the government at the same time was nerve wracking. I don’t think I got a decent night’s sleep for a month and a half. Thankfully it didn’t take long to unpick that one so I travelled into China next.” The detective waved his free hand in illustration while John was beginning to understand the sheer scale of work needed to accomplish this mission, it was a relentless and unforgiving time.

“There were two main cells and numerous sub cells. I concentrated on the bigger targets; the lesser ones withered into nothing without guidance from above. That took about three months in all. Then there was weeks of combing through to make sure we’d got everything. We didn’t want to leave even one person behind who could rebuild it all from scratch. Only when we were sure it was done, that’s when I came home.” Sherlock looked relieved, as if stepping off the plane on to London soil for the first time in two years all over again.

“Wow.” John didn’t have anything more articulate to say for a moment or two. “I can’t believe you went all over the world, taking down terrorists and other criminals left, right and centre. You’re amazing. It makes my ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ campaign pale in to insignificance really.” The doctor looked down at his lap for a moment, humbled by what his best friend had achieved. He felt a squeeze to his hand and raised his head.

“Don’t sell your efforts short. I had the resources of the Global Intelligence community at my disposal and I was never truly working on my own, not really... unlike you.” Sherlock gave him a sad little smile; John could tell what he was thinking. _‘We both missed each other, no matter who else we may have had around us... and if he’d died out there, I’d never have had my very own miracle.’_

“I’m glad you’re here.” _‘I won’t let you go again.’_


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

John had been back at Baker Street for a couple of days now. Sherlock had swapped bedrooms with him for the time being because the extra set of stairs would leave the doctor exhausted and sweating if he tried to tackle them on his own several times a day, which he would because John Watson was as stubborn as a mule and twice as infuriating.

“Would you stop scowling already? I had a shower! It’s not like I climbed on the roof to replace the tiles.” John was sitting in his chair in his dressing gown, his hair still slightly damp while Sherlock silently seethed at the kitchen table, looking at slides on his microscope.

“You should have waited and called me to help! If you’d fallen on the side of the bathtub then you’d have been right back in hospital again, probably needing surgery this time.” The detective snarled. He had only gone to the shops, coming back to the sight of John’s empty chair and the sound of the shower running. Sherlock had burst into the bathroom like a livid tornado, nearly giving his flatmate a heart attack in the process. 

“It’s not like you could reach everywhere anyway, you can still barely bend.” Once the former soldier had got over his initial surprise, he had then proceeded to try and shout at Sherlock while simultaneously protecting his modesty by twisting away. Unfortunately, all he ended up doing was aggravating his still healing injuries. John put his newspaper down in his lap and covered his face with his hands in frustration.

“Alright, fine! Next time I want a shower I’ll let you help me; now will you just drop it? I’m tired and can’t be bothered arguing anymore.” He yawned as if to illustrate that point. “This constant exhaustion is actually more annoying than the pain.” John couldn’t sleep for stretches longer than an hour and a half before waking up from chest soreness, creating a need for frequent naps. Sherlock was about to answer when there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and his face darkened.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” He grumbled before the kitchen door had even opened. The older brother walked into the room, completely immune to the frosty reception.

“Good afternoon to you too, I come bearing news. Since Dr Watson’s recent blog post about the black market in donor organs there’s been a growing public clamour, both to catch the criminals responsible and to address the lack of legitimate organs. The Prime Minister has responded by agreeing to set up a task force to examine different options aimed at increasing the numbers of people registering as potential donors.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly towards John. “It seems that your talent for citizen journalism has paid dividends once again.”

“The serious crime team at the Met have been doing well in tracking down members of the smuggling ring too. The legwork we put in gave them a decent springboard so they could hit the ground running. A job well done, John.” Sherlock added with a small smile as he turned on his stool towards the living room, the doctor flushed and gave an embarrassed little laugh.

“Alright, alright, no need to lay it on so thick! Thank you but don’t make me out to be some sort of hero, there’s no such thing, remember?” John was too busy pushing himself up from his chair to see the stricken look flash across the detective’s face. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit and get a nap.” He grabbed his crutch and shuffled down the hall into Sherlock’s room and closed the door behind him with a click.

“Must he always remember all the unpleasant things that I’ve said in the past?” Sherlock muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough for Mycroft to miss it.

“ _‘The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.’_ ” His older brother replied, fixing him with an annoying little smirk of arrogance.

“Why are you still here? You’ve delivered your news, or do you just want to stand around quoting Brecht some more?” Sherlock knew he sounded like a petulant child but that was an attitude that Mycroft was very good at bringing out in him.

“Why not? He did have a number of lines that I believe are very pertinent today. For example: _‘They’ve filed down whatever edges we used to have.’_ I’ve noted lately that the good doctor seems to have had a softening effect on you, little brother.” The civil servant watched as Sherlock flicked his gaze up and narrowed his eyes.

“Are you trying to insult me? Softness, along with caring and sentiment have never been things that you’ve held in high esteem.” Sherlock’s mind was clicking away, his older brother was always working to an agenda of some kind. _‘And knowing about the end goal is the trick to avoiding falling prey to his machinations.’_

“Indeed, they haven’t. However, we’ve both recently been introduced to a new school of thought regarding the advantages of emotions. As Brecht also said _‘Mixing one's wines may be a mistake, but old and new wisdom mix admirably.’_ ” Mycroft watched as the detective’s eyes slowly widened as he came to a realisation.

“Brother, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to meddle in my personal life... Which is ridiculous as we both know that those sorts of entanglements are a distraction at best and a liability at worst.” They had never had the kind of fraternal relationship where they confided in each other about things like this, except to occasionally goad and snipe at the other.

“We both know that matters of the heart aren’t my area – or yours… But I know what I can see in front of me. _‘Facts are facts, whisper them or shout them.’_ I feel compelled to point out that if you took a moment to re-examine your prior objections to such things, then I think you’ll find a lot of them no longer apply.” Mycroft picked at a non-existent thread on his sleeve as Sherlock simply stared at him.

Sherlock had never believed for one second that he’d succeeded in hiding his… regard _‘Fine. Attraction. Interest. Whatever.’_ for John from his brother, the insufferable bore probably knew about it before even the detective did. Neither mentioned it because they both knew that Sherlock had no intentions of acting on those feelings, for reasons they both understood and agreed upon… until now so it seemed.

“It almost sounds like you are offering me your blessing.” This situation was so surreal that Sherlock wasn’t certain he hadn’t accidentally ingested some sort of hallucinogen. Granted, he wasn’t performing any experiments on anything like that at the moment, but still, it seemed the only reasonable explanation for this odd conversation. Mycroft gave him a condescending smile, though it was maybe a touch warmer than normal.

“That’s because I am. John Watson is a very good man; I know I hardly need to extol his virtues to you. You could certainly do far worse. In fact, your only issue may be convincing _him_ of his own value.” Mycroft took out his Blackberry with a sigh when his itinerary alerted him to an engagement. 

“I must go, I’m meeting with an errant corporate heiress whose dalliances have the potential to cause global stock prices to plummet. By my calculations you have roughly 80 minutes before Dr Watson wakes up from his nap. That should be long enough for you to gather your thoughts.” The civil servant tapped his umbrella against the floor and saw himself out. Sherlock didn’t even hear him leave, already in his Mind Palace to try and make sense of what Mycroft was suggesting and why. 

But after ten minutes of doing nothing but replaying the conversation and reciting parts of ‘The Caucasian Chalk Circle’ and ‘Mother Courage and her Children’ the detective growled in frustration, standing up to pace the kitchen. _‘All of this is irrelevant anyway, because even if a romantic entanglement could be managed so as not to adversely affect my mind and the Work, John has never wanted a relationship with me.’_

That thought made Sherlock pause, his older brother may be a lot of things but needlessly cruel wasn’t one of them. He wouldn’t set Sherlock up just to humiliate him, which could only mean that _Mycroft_ believed that John was interested in Sherlock. _‘Ridiculous! I live with him! I would have deduced it!’_ But a voice that sounded a lot like his brother’s answered that thought with _‘Just like you deduced about the flute, Callahan and his sexuality?’_

The genius sank down at the kitchen table again and chewed on his lip; he was forced to admit to himself that if John didn’t want Sherlock to know about any romantic feelings he might have, he was perfectly capable of hiding them from him. Fisting his hands in his hair, he found his mind wandering to the first time he’d suspected his feelings for John had crossed from that of friendship to those of a more romantic nature.

_“Well, I’m glad no one saw that.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”_

The fact that the doctor was able to make a teasing joke like that after spending God knows how long strapped into a vest loaded with enough explosives to level the building made Sherlock want to laugh and cry at the same time. This man who had been ready to tell his friend to run and leave him to blow himself up with his arm around Moriarty’s throat. Selfless, good and brave people like John Watson weren’t meant to exist in real life, only in stories.

Later when they were safely back in Baker Street, they’d ordered in enough food to feed the entire postcode, sat on the floor in front of the fire and watched all the Lethal Weapon movies back to back. Full to bursting with tears of laughter in his eyes, Sherlock had looked at John’s profile in the light cast by the fire and one word came to mind: Beautiful.

It hadn’t been long after that that the detective had had to admit his feelings to himself, if no one else. He loved John Watson, his best friend, colleague, flatmate and blogger. However, the little experience he had had of relationships from his student days had made him believe that it wasn’t worth acting on his attraction. It became nothing more than a background fact in his life, like that he played the violin very well or despised idiotic people.

At the time in addition to that, Sherlock had come up with a mental list of reasons why pursuing a romantic relationship was a bad idea. He decided to put the question about John’s feelings to the side for now and dug that list out of a filing cabinet in his Mind Palace to review it once more, two years and eight months farther down the line. 

Ten minutes later and Sherlock Holmes was more than a little stunned at the results.

Reasons Against Initiating Romantic Entanglements With John  
1\. Needless distraction from the Work.  
2\. Caring is not an advantage; it hinders clear thinking.  
3\. Eventual inevitable boredom.  
4\. Sentiment is a chemical defect & weakness.  
5\. Alone protects me.  
6\. Possibility of unrequited feelings.

Postscript:  
1\. John’s presence increases mental performances & efficiency by an average of 37%. In fact, his absence is often a distraction in itself.  
2\. It is possible to care & react appropriately in emergencies with mental discipline. _‘Whether caring is an advantage or not depends on the person in question, not the feelings involved.’_  
3\. To date, John remains the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. Boredom is clearly _not_ inevitable.  
4\. John: Full of sentiment. Strong. Not defective in any way.  
5\. Evidence strongly suggests that alone, both John & I would, in fact, be dead.  
6\. - Stands unchallenged. –

Sherlock stood from the kitchen table, he felt dizzy, he felt drunk. Possibilities that he’d never allowed himself to entertain were flooding his brain in such a torrent that he could barely discern one thought from the other. The detective walked into the living room and picked up his violin and held it to try and ground himself. He sank into his chair and began to absently pluck at the strings.

“I suppose the final question that remains for me to answer is this…” Sherlock’s grey eyes stole over to his closed bedroom door as he voiced his thoughts out loud, a small smile coming to his lips. “Is the fear of rejection a good enough reason not to even try?”


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

John woke up slowly, he had a brief moment of disorientation where he wasn’t sure where he was before he remembered he’d swapped rooms with Sherlock. This bed was much more luxurious than his own, it was just the right balance between comfort and support and it made the short snatches of sleep he got a lot more restful than they’d otherwise be.

Throwing back the covers, John got up carefully, reaching for his robe and pulling it back on. As annoying as his lingering rib injuries were, he knew he was lucky that he was even walking just ten days after falling three storeys on to concrete, albeit with a crutch. He wasn’t religious by nature, not really, but he couldn’t help thinking that someone had been watching over him that day.

The doctor opened the bedroom door and caught a whiff of something cooking, something delicious, and it made his mouth water. He padded into the kitchen to find Sherlock tending to a sizzling wok on the stove, he’d cleared the table of clutter and equipment, setting two places for them.

“Had a good nap?” The detective’s baritone snapped John out of his stunned trance. “Hope you’re hungry, have a seat, this only needs a minute more.” Sherlock turned back to the hob, using a pair of cooking tongs to move the meat, noodles and vegetables around, flicking his wrist to toss it about.

“Ravenous, actually. That smells amazing, I had no idea that you could cook.” John pulled out a chair and sat down, normally if anyone was making a meal it was John. He wasn’t a natural chef, but the army had taught him enough to make a few really filling dishes, he rotated through them and practice had perfected his execution.

“I’m a chemist and cooking is simply applied chemistry.” Sherlock explained as he turned the stove off, taking the wok and portioning the contents between the two plates. He put the pan down and opened the fridge to pull out a carton of fresh juice. “I would have preferred for us to have had wine with this but you are still on painkillers so apple juice it is.” The detective shook it and poured them both a glass.

“Well, we could pretend that it’s cider ice wine if we really wanted to.” John answered as he waited until Sherlock was sitting down himself before picking up his cutlery. “I have no idea what brought this on but thank you, this smells delicious and I intend to enjoy every bite.” He used his fork to spear some of the chicken and water chestnuts together with the sweet and sour sauce and brought it to his mouth, a deep groan of appreciation bubbling up from his throat.

“Christ, that is really good. I don’t think I’ve ever had a better chicken stir fry.” The former soldier commented as soon as he’d finished swallowing. Sherlock loved praise, of any kind, so he visibly preened from the compliment and beamed at him. _‘I feel underdressed for this.’_ John suddenly felt self-conscious sitting down to a home cooked meal with his immaculately dressed flatmate while wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.

“I’ll remind you of this next time I accidentally melt one of the appliances.” Sherlock replied as he lifted his wine glass of not-ice cider, smiling teasingly over the rim as he took a sip. John chuckled and shook his head good naturedly.

“Even better, you can make something like this for me as an apology when you next destroy something of mine.” The doctor had already made a decent dent in the food on his plate, pleased to see that Sherlock had an appetite too for once. “Wish you’d have warned me beforehand, I’d have made more of an effort to not look like…” He waved a vague hand towards himself, searching for the correct phrase.

“…Like you’re suffering from pain induced sleep deprivation due to multiple rib fractures?” The detective supplied helpfully with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry about it, the clothes you are wearing aren’t as important as your excellent company.” John grinned at him, he loved when Sherlock was in one of these moods; when he was engaging, charming, considerate and he was free with his compliments, his smile and his rich deep laugh.

“Why, Mr Holmes, if I didn’t know better then I’d say you were trying to flatter me.” The doctor picked up his own wine glass with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he teased. He’d never had a friend that he had such an easy rapport with, either before or since. They could go from shouting at one another to rolling around in hysterics in next to no time without batting an eyelid.

“Looks like I need to try harder then because that indeed was the intention.” Sherlock replied without missing a beat but John thought he must have misheard somehow. Still, he didn’t want to ruin their meal and the jovial mood so he played along, half-curious to see where this was going.

“So, there was an ulterior motive behind the dinner after all? You’re a devious man, Sherlock, I’ll need to be careful that you don’t lead me astray.” The doctor had no idea why he came out with that blatantly suggestive comment, it’s not as if there was actual alcohol in his drink that he could blame. Part of him was intrigued with his friend’s playfulness and wanted to see how far they would take this. However, the atmosphere broke when Sherlock snorted with laughter.

“Lead you astray? I think that ship has long since sailed, John.” Sherlock was grinning and his eyes were filled with warmth and fondness. John made a show of tilting his head to the side and considering that statement in mock seriousness before nodding.

“Yeaaaaah, you’re right about that. I was ‘led astray’ the moment I helped you chase down a black cab through the streets of London.” John chuckled with a wide grin on his face as they chatted and reminisced about the case that began it all. _‘I was doomed from the start; I just didn’t know it yet.’_

It was The Woman that made John realise his feelings were no longer platonic, if indeed they’d ever been that, he was so jealous of Irene that he was almost spitting… and watching Sherlock pining and seemingly heartbroken over her hurt him more than it really should have done. Once he’d realised that he was smitten, he’d spent the next few weeks terrified that the detective would deduce it and that would be the end of everything. 

But the dreaded moment never came, John was relieved and could only assume that either: 1. Sherlock knew and was content to ignore it in favour of maintaining their friendship or 2. The man who abhors sentiment and avoids relationships couldn’t spot a crush the size of the London Eye even if it lived with him and made him tea on a regular basis.

The ex-soldier hadn’t minded which option it was, as long as he was allowed to continue basking in the brilliance of the most amazing person he’d ever met. The fact Sherlock considered him his friend was more than enough; John would have done anything to stay close to him, anything to protect him. Still would, in fact.

“Christ, that was good. Any time you feel like cooking again, Sherlock, feel free. You don’t need to wait for an invitation.” John pushed his plate away and sat back in his chair with a satisfied noise, patting his full stomach. “Tasted better than a takeaway and it’s bound to be better for you.” The detective piled the plates together, using his long arms to put them in the sink without getting up.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it so much, that made it worth the effort so it’s something I’ll definitely do again in the future. Shall we see if there’s anything good to shout at on the tv?” Sherlock asked and John agreed with a grin, he got up carefully and used his crutch to go into the living room heading for the couch. It was easier for him to see the telly from there, plus he could raise his sprained knee by putting it up on the coffee table.

The doctor picked up the remote once he got settled, flicking through until he found a crime drama knowing Sherlock would rip it to shreds within minutes. John didn’t think anything of it when his flatmate took the seat next to him, they often shared the couch while watching movies and shows. He’d topped up their wineglasses and put them on the table before sitting back.

“I’ve only been looking at the screen for 2.4 seconds and I’ve already spotted fourteen ridiculous inaccuracies.” Sherlock commented dryly making John snigger into his hand. But in the next instant, he forgot all about the tv show. The reason? Sherlock had stretched to lay his arm along the back of the couch behind the doctor’s shoulders.

 _‘It’s ok, Sherlock has never had any particular concept of personal space, especially MY personal space. This is just a sign of how comfortable he is with me.’_ John had just about convinced himself that the gesture was entirely innocent when those long musician’s fingers began caressing his far shoulder. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from gasping in shock.

“You alright over there?” There was a smirk in Sherlock’s voice that told John that the detective knew exactly what he was doing. He felt a flush of embarrassment and humiliation creeping up his face and a surge of anger made him straighten his spine on instinct.

“Is there any particular reason that you’ve decided to make fun of me?” John kept his eyes forward and his voice even, the light touches on his shoulder stilled instantly but Sherlock didn’t withdraw his arm or move to widen the space between them.

“What makes you think I’m being anything other than entirely sincere right now?” There was confusion and a little hurt in Sherlock’s voice. It was enough to make the doctor feel instantly guilty but he resisted the urge to turn and face his flatmate, not until he knew what Sherlock’s game was; an experiment? Something for a case? A misguided attempt at pulling a prank?

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me, Mr Married-To-My-Work?” John replied heatedly, internally cursing when the detective used the remote to turn the tv off, removing his excuse for keeping his eyes fixed on it. He dropped his gaze to his lap instead, beginning to pick at a frayed seam.

“Yes. I did say that… and I meant it when I said it. But things have changed since that night. I refuse to believe that you don’t know how much I care about you. You’re my best friend, I’d die for you, I’d kill for you, it’s no longer my Work, it’s _our_ Work.” John found himself raising his head as Sherlock spoke, it was true, he knew the genius held him in very high esteem and valued his friendship. He showed him in numerous small ways all the time. But John had been certain that there was nothing more to it than that.

“I can’t even imagine my life without you. I don’t want to, it’s unthinkable, unacceptable! I’ll admit that despite my long standing attraction to you, I’ve been content to keep the dynamics of our friendship as they were because I thought pursuing a relationship would be a bad idea. But I’ve changed my mind about that now.” Sherlock reached over to cover John’s hands in his lap with his free one, it was then the doctor realised that he was trembling. His mind had gone blank, struggling to process what was happening.

“I wasn’t even sure if these feelings were mutual, again you are very good at keeping your secrets when you want to. But if your increased respiration, dilated pupils and, quite frankly, galloping heart rate is anything to go by, I’d say you’ve been attracted to me for a long time too.” Sherlock’s voice was breathy and John felt as though those grey eyes were burning his skin wherever their gaze touched. The former soldier blushed a deep crimson and stood up, overwhelmed and feeling the urge to escape.

“Don’t read me like that, Sherlock, that’s not fair! But I know there’s no use in lying to you, so yeah, I’ve wanted you for longer than I care to admit. I never intended to tell you, I know how strongly you feel about sentiment and I didn’t want to ruin what we already have.” John picked up his glass and gulped it down in one to soothe his drying mouth, dearly wishing that it _was_ cider rather than apple juice.

“Because honestly, I already feel ridiculously lucky that I get to call you my best mate.” The doctor put the wine glass down, being careful not to knock it over with how bad his hands were shaking. Sherlock hadn’t moved, watching him with all the intensity he possessed. “You’re this stunning, brilliant, talented and all-round exceptional person who deserves the very best life has to offer and I’m just… me. A run-of-the-mill bloke who is pretty ordinary and boring in every conceivable way.” 

As John finally managed to get to the end of his panic induced rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment to take a calming breath. _‘There. It’s all out there now. He knows.’_ When he opened them again, he found Sherlock giving him the look he usually reserved for when someone had said something absolutely moronic and illogical. The detective stood from the couch, approaching John and grabbing him firmly by the shoulders.

“You’ve managed to surprise me once again, John. I now know it’s possible to want to hug someone tightly and shake them silly for their blindness at the same time, thank you for this insight. Only you could look at yourself and see anything other than a brilliant and amazing person.” Sherlock pulled John closer to him, staring down at his confused flatmate with a gentle smile as he wrapped his long arms around him.

“I’ve learnt more about you in the last ten weeks than I ever knew before, you can read Braille, for God’s sake! How many people can say that? Or that they can play the clarinet _and_ the flute? And I dare say there’s probably many other things as well, because you are too humble to mention things that others would broadcast from the rooftops.” John didn’t know what to do with his hands in this unexpected embrace so he ended up letting them rest against Sherlock’s chest lightly, feeling his heart thudding almost as fast as his.

“You’re the first person to offer a helping hand to anyone, you forgive everything and always give people the benefit of the doubt, no matter what. But you never give yourself the credit you rightly deserve, and I can tell from the look on your face that you genuinely don’t see how wonderful you are. I’m making it my personal mission to point this out to you as often as I can until you believe it and then carry on doing so anyway.” Sherlock gently stroked a loose strand of hair out of John’s face, before cupping his cheek and using his thumb to caress it affectionately. _‘His eyes. He means everything he’s saying.’_

“If that’s not enough to convince you of how extraordinary you are, then the fact you’ve taught me - shown me, that caring can save lives, that love doesn’t have to be a detriment, that it can be turned into an asset in the right circumstances is truly incredible. In a world that is often cruel for no good reason, you refuse to let it crush your compassionate spirit, you never give up or compromise who you are. I think better with you bes-” John couldn’t hold back any longer, he surged upwards, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s and swallowing his little gasp of shock.

He pushed one hand into the curls at the back of the detective’s neck, the other gripping his bicep to steady himself. Once Sherlock had got over his initial surprise, he returned the kiss, deepening it as he wrapped his arms low around the doctor’s waist. John let a little sigh of pleasure escape at feeling Sherlock’s tongue slide against his own, he felt like the very air around them should be crackling with the raw energy between them.

“A-are you sure it’s me that you want?” John whispered against his lips when the kiss broke for oxygen, his sprained knee was beginning to ache from standing for so long. Sherlock pulled the doctor closer, unbalancing him so his weight was off his sore leg and Sherlock was supporting him, giving a self-assured little smirk as he replied.

“Quite sure. It’s John Watson or no one as far as I’m concerned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I was one to title my chapters, this one would be called 'How To Woo Your Watson.'


	25. Epilogue

Sherlock nearly tripped over a tree root for the thirtieth time and again mentally questioned why he was traipsing around the middle of nowhere in the Lake District? Then the detective caught sight of the reason looking out on the great rolling hills and valleys with a brilliant smile on his face and stopped grumbling for a few minutes. 

John had gone almost stir crazy from being stuck in the flat for the last month and a half, so when Mycroft had offered them the use of a cabin near Rydal Water for a week they’d jumped at the chance for a change of scenery. The doctor was mostly rehabilitated, sometimes he still winced if he laughed too hard or got particularly breathless _‘Ahem…’_ but his knee had healed and he was sleeping much better.

Sherlock had been surprised how easy the shift from friends to partners had been for them, but thinking about it now, it really shouldn’t have been. They already had a firm foundation of trust and comfort to build up from, not much had really changed in their everyday lives. John made tea, Sherlock left body parts in the microwave, they bickered, they laughed, they bantered; just now with a much more tactile element added to the mix.

The detective was a person who threw himself wholeheartedly into every aspect in his life and his relationship was no different. Now he knew what it was like to hold John in his arms while he slept, he wondered how on Earth he’d ever survived this long without it? The physical side of their new dynamics hadn’t progressed much past hugs and some pretty intense make out sessions, mostly because of John’s still mending body but also partly due to the fact there was no rush, they had the time to explore and learn each other.

As Sherlock walked, his mind inevitably wandered away. They hadn’t really checked the cabin out properly, John had been desperate to go for a hike in the bracing Cumbrian air so they’d just dumped their bags in the living room, grabbed a map and headed back out. Mycroft had mentioned something about a jacuzzi style bathtub though, Sherlock was so busy allowing himself to imagine taking a long soak with John later that he didn’t hear his name being called until it was too late.

Sherlock stumbled and half fell/half slid down a steep muddy incline, he tried to dig his heels in to arrest his descent but only succeeded in catching his right leg on a branch, pain shooting up from his ankle as he finally came to a stop on a natural ledge.

“Sherlock! Are you ok?!” John shouted out in concern as he carefully climbed down towards him, making sure to have a strong grip on roots and rocks. He got down safely with only one or two slipping incidents. The doctor knelt down in front of Sherlock and gently pried his hands away from his ankle. “Twisted it for sure, possibly a sprain but I’m hoping not. No way you’re walking on that.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket in hope rather than expectation.

“No signal?” Sherlock questioned, getting a nod in return. “You should climb back up and head back to the cabin, you could call for help from there. It shouldn’t take too long for someone from mountain rescue to arrive.” He could tell from the look on John’s face that he did not like the idea of leaving the detective alone one bit.

“No, I’m only going to do that as a last resort. I could carry you up and back but I need more traction on my shoes.” The former soldier sat down and pulled off his trainers, he flipped them over and used his pocketknife to cut a crisscrossing pattern in to the soles. He tested the grip on the slope and shook his head. “Not enough… Sorry, need your shades.”

John grabbed the pair of Brioni designer sunglasses from Sherlock’s front pocket before he could argue and used the blade to pop the lenses out of the frame. He wrapped them in some tissues and crushed them into coarse sand. Then using some mud as a bonding agent, he rubbed the toes and upper half of the soles of his trainers into the ground glass.

“Is this standard military training, Captain?” Sherlock found himself asking, not bothering to hide the impressed edge to his tone as John pulled his shoes back on and tied them tightly. The doctor got to his feet and scrunched in the glass once more for good measure before offering his flatmate his hand.

“Not quite, but improvisation and problem solving sure is. Also allow me to demonstrate one of the many carrying techniques I know.” John pulled Sherlock upright, holding on to his arm by the wrist as he bent down to one knee and hauled Sherlock across his shoulders. As he stood back up, he threaded his right arm through Sherlock’s legs and adjusted the load so it was more evenly distributed. “Now, I can’t hold on to you and climb at the same time so don’t squirm about.”

In the privacy of his own mind, the detective could admit that it was more than a little arousing that John could carry someone so much taller than he was. He’d always known that the ex-soldier was a strong man and in exceptionally good shape, but there was a difference between being aware of that in the abstract and having a prime view of muscles bulging and straining as John dragged the pair of them back up the incline.

“Right, it’s not far to the cabin from here, thankfully. We’ll ice that ankle down as soon as we get in.” John sounded a little out of breath once they got back to the path. He used his right arm to grab Sherlock’s left wrist and held it against the detective’s knee. This way he only needed one hand to keep a grip on to his charge, the other free in case of emergencies.

“Are you sure about this? You’re not 100% recovered yet, I’m sure I could walk if you supported me.” Sherlock realised that talking while riding on someone’s shoulders was an interesting experience, his teeth clacked together with the bobbing motion of John’s steps and he’d need to be careful not to bite his tongue.

“It’s fine, my shoulder’s gonna hate me but I’d rather that than risk making a twisted ankle into a sprain or worse. Trust you to go and get injured on the first day here, I tried to warn you about the drop off from the path but you didn’t hear me, what on Earth were you thinking about?” The doctor used his forearm to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead before it could get into his eyes.

“You, me and the jacuzzi tub, if you must know.” Sherlock cast his gaze sideways to see John flush up to the tips of his ears and grinned before he remembered something. “I know you didn’t appreciate this question the last time I asked it, but we’re not in public this time and we’re together now so I hope it’s ok. How many people have you been with?” John almost missed his footing at the unexpected enquiry but he managed to recover before they face planted into the gravel.

“Now? Seriously? You want to have this conversation right now?” John asked in an incredulous tone, glancing over to see Sherlock’s expectant face. “Fine… women, I’ve slept with twelve total. Kissed and dated more, my army mates make me sound like some sort of rampant lothario but really, that’s all. As for men, well, there was Harvey and the other guy...”

“They don’t count, you wouldn’t take a stabbing and call it fencing.” Sherlock stated assuredly as he moved his hand so he could squeeze John’s wrist. “Though it is possible to stab someone during a fencing match, but that’s beside the point and rather complicates my metaphor… Ow!” The detective tutted as he accidentally nipped his tongue, making the doctor huff in amusement.

“Well in that case, that’s it. As I said before, it’s been hard for me to find a guy I’m really into.” John gave the man on his shoulders a playful little bounce that both surprised and delighted him. “What about you? Same question.”

“Two sexual relationships, both men, both in university. After the second one broke down in literal flames, I decided that it wasn’t worth the hassle and went celibate till now.” The cabin was in sight finally, which was good as Sherlock could tell that John was beginning to flag a bit.

“Literal flames? I was going to ask but then I remembered the sugar fireball, we were damn lucky we only lost the curtains and an oven glove that time.” John gave a wry little chuckle with a shake of his head, how Mrs Hudson put up with them at times was a total mystery.

“That was an impressive explosion, thank heavens for your good reflexes. Compared to that, my ex-partner definitely overreacted.” _‘Or I live with a man with the patience of a saint.’_ Sherlock thought as they finally reached the door to the cabin. John reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys, when he unlocked the door, he pushed it open and walked in sideways so he wouldn’t whack Sherlock’s head off the doorframe.

“Right, let me put you down next to the couch and see if there’s an ice pack or something in the freezer.” The doctor got into the living room and gently knelt down to put the detective back on his feet. He made sure his partner had his balance before straightening back up. 

John had turned to walk to the kitchen when he was pulled back in to Sherlock’s chest, lean but strong arms wrapped around him as lips were pressed against his insistently. The detective ran his tongue along John’s bottom lip to encourage him to open his mouth, diving inside to lay claim to it once he did so.

“Thank you for the lift, Captain.” Sherlock practically purred when the kiss broke. “I might have to fall down hills more often if it means I have an excuse to be carried by my incredibly strong army doctor again.” He felt the vibration of John’s chuckle from where he was nuzzling at his throat.

“Please don’t, it’s nice to show off once in a while but I’d like to keep your injuries to a minimum.” John extracted himself from Sherlock’s embrace and finally made it to the kitchen. Sherlock sat himself down on the couch and took off his right shoe as well as the sock. He placed his leg on the coffee table and gingerly pulled up his trouser leg to get a look at his ankle.

“Nicely swollen from the looks of it.” John had just come back in the room, he had one ice pack in his hand and another balanced on his left shoulder. The doctor sat on the table next to Sherlock’s foot and examined it carefully. “Definitely just a twisted ankle. If you avoid doing anything strenuous for the rest of today then I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s mostly better by tomorrow.” He gently placed the wrapped ice pack on his ankle before moving to the couch.

“Define strenuous.” Sherlock asked as he immediately pulled John into his side with an arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the skin behind John’s ear. “Because I’m not intending to let a minor foot injury get in the way of my plans for you today.”

“Sherlock Holmes! I would never have figured you for being such a pleasure seeker.” John was attempting to sound scandalised but the effect was promptly undermined by the way he groaned when the detective nibbled lightly on his earlobe.

“Really? I would have thought that would be the natural inference from how ‘hands on’ I can be in various other parts of my life.” Sherlock spoke directly into John’s ear, purposefully lowering the pitch of his voice. “Now, doctor, I believe the correct treatment for an injury such as this is to alternate cold then warmth, so I’m sure you’ll agree that a hot bath is an excellent idea… Medically supervised, of course.” He felt justifiably smug when it took John two swallows before he could answer.

“A brilliant treatment plan, let me just go draw up the prescription.”

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this. It's officially the longest thing I've ever written and I've been writing most of my life.
> 
> EDIT: In celebration of 1000 hits I've reworked the story according to feedback from Finnmark regarding epithets. That's the only difference, except for a couple of minor word changes. No plot changes etc.


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